


West of Hollywood

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Quick just wants to win a Stanley Cup.  Hiring a high-priced escort wasn’t part of the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West of Hollywood

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2012 Hockey Big Bang. Any negative portrayals of Slovenia are for narrative purposes only. Slovenia is a wonderful country. Also, I apologize for any misuses of Slovenian. 
> 
> This takes place during the fall of 2010.
> 
> Thank you to pikasafire for the wonderful [artwork](http://pikasafire.livejournal.com/94170.html)!

**Prologue**

**January 2000**

It hurts.

The needle flicks against his hip bone, his twelve-year-old body too lean to have any muscle or fat over the spot, and Anže tries to squirm in the restraints. All it earns him is another nick to the bone as the tattoo needle catches on a curve, and Anže lets out a whine.

“Anže-”

Anže turns his head to see his father, arms crossed over his chest, leaning his hip against the wall and watching as if he doesn’t care that his oldest son is going through the humiliation of the Branding. But Anže knows better. He recognizes his father’s coaching face, the one Matjaz wears when Jesenice is losing and the press is asking stupid questions. Matjaz nods at him, a small, barely perceivable tilt of his chin, and Anže bites his lip, determined not to make another sound.

The brander makes a swish of his fingers and the needle catches hard against Anže’s stomach. Anže’s body tenses, shuddering, and his fingers grip the restraints but he doesn't scream. It’s January in Slovenia, the snow is blowing in under the door and whipping around his father’s boots, but Anže feels overheated, warm and clammy and sweat is dripping down his forehead and over his ears. His knuckles are white and aching, his thighs burning from being clenched with the pain, and there is a fire in his hip, spreading out to his stomach, his chest, and it’s hard to breath.

“Previdno.” The brander’s voice is soft, gentle, and Anže almost relaxes into the hand that the brander rests on Anže’s left hip, but then the fingers start to caress, dipping under his already low-slung boxers, and Anže squirms for a whole other reason.

“Nehaj!” Matjaz’s voice is cold as he pushes off the wall, but the brander raises the hand with the needle to wave him off.

“Skoraj končano.” His thumb swipes under Anže’s boxers again as he returns the needle to Anže’s right hip and applies one last, hard stroke. “Na!” Smiling, satisfied, he removes both hands and sits back, eyeing his handy-work. Matjaz walks to stand over the brander’s shoulder, boots loud on the concrete floor. The brander raises an eyebrow. “Lepa, noben?” Anže wiggles under the gaze and the brander’s eyes darken. “Lep fant.”

The tone is somehow familiar, and Anže frowns until he remembers the agent who had brought them here. The agent had looked at him in the same way, whispered strange, confusing things in the same tone, and had caressed his back with the same gentle, uncomfortable touches. Not for the first time since this began, Anže wishes that he had never pulled Marko behind the playground and kissed him. It had felt fun, good, sweetly forbidden, and they had giggled together as Marko had learned forward, fumbling with his fingers at the waistband of Anže’s track pants, and kissed him. 

For a moment, Anže smiles at the memory, but then the brander is undoing the restraints and Matjaz’s hand is grabbing Anže’s shoulder roughly, pushing him up and forcing him to slip into his clothes. The tattoo stings and burns as his elastic waistband brushes it, but his father ignores his flinch and pulls him out into the snow. Anže’s feet are barely in his boots and the snow is making his feet cold. “Umiri se!”

“Noben.” Matjaz glances behind them, as if he’s worried the brander is following them, before pulling Anže around a corner and swinging him up into the old pick-up truck.

Anže grunts in pain, curling in on himself in the seat, and whimpers when Matjaz puts the truck in gear and pulls quickly onto the road, the wheels squealing and whirring in the newly fallen snow. Anže frowns at his father. “Kako boli.”

Matjaz glances at him quickly, before turning his eyes back to the road. “Vem.” His voice is gentle, soothing, and as they pull onto the country road, Anže closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

Translations:

previdno = easy (cautious)  
nehaj! = stop!  
skoraj končano = Almost done  
na! = there (expressing satisfaction)  
lepa, noben? = beautiful, no?  
lep fant = beautiful boy  
umiri se! = slow down!  
kako boli = it hurts  
vem = I know

***

**September 2010**

Anže holds his left knee to his chest, using his free hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. He grunts, biting his lip and tipping his head back. Above him, Brian swears, his hands pressing to either side of Anže’s head as he snaps his hips, hard.

“Yes, god, so tight. Fuck-” Brian’s eyes go dark and he tilts his hips, catching Anže’s prostrate and Anže’s body shutters. “Yes, yes, good, Aron, tighter.”

Anže grins, letting go of his knee and wrapping his ankle around Brian’s hips, urging him in deeper. Brian swears, tipping his head back, spine going rigid and arms shaking as he comes. He holds himself still for a moment, panting and regaining his breath before he slips out of Anže and rolls off the bed, dropping the condom in the wastebasket. Anže straightens his legs, wincing as his knee cracks, but smiles as Brian zips the fly on his suit pants and grins at him.

“That was good. Even better than usual.”

Anže nods. “It’s been a while.”

Brian slips on his dress shirt, not bothering to button it up. He rests a knee on the bed and kisses Anže’s cheek. “Next time I’m in town, yeah?” He stops at the door. “The room’s paid for another hour.”

The door closes and Anže sighs, reaching down to wrap his fingers around his half-hard dick. He doesn’t always get hard when he’s working, but Brian’s a regular, and he pushes Anže better than most. With the hour already paid for, Anže takes the time to tease himself, fingers ghosting lightly up and down his dick. His feet press against the mattress, hips thrusting, and he focuses on the ache in his ass, still feeling open and full. His other hand caresses his balls, before slipping back and brushing against the smooth skin that always makes him shudder. “Ahh,” he closes his eyes, slipping three fingers into his ass, pumping hard and fast until he comes into his fist.

He waits until his sated calm has passed, before glancing at the clock and swearing at how far into the hour he is. He makes quick work of the shower, then straightens the sheets, opening the window a crack to air the room out. Satisfied, he grabs the envelope of cash off the bedside table, stuffing it into his bag and heading out to catch a cab.

***

“Hej,” Anže calls as he enters the apartment. It’s quiet. The TV is on, but muted, and there are lights on in the kitchen, so Anže calls louder as he locks the front door and dumps his keys in the bowl beside it. “Hej, Sasha.”

Sasha comes out of his bedroom down the hall, dressed in yellow Lakers shorts pulled halfway down his hips so that they fall well past his knees. Anže bites back a laugh and, when Sasha gets close enough to kiss him lightly on the cheek in greeting, Anže pulls the shorts far enough up to cover the tattoo on his hipbone.

“Anže,” Sasha whines, swatting his hand away. “To je kul.”

Anže shakes his head, stepping around him and dropping onto the couch in the living room. “We have to be careful.” 

Sasha rolls his eyes, pulling on an over-large basketball jersey and going to the fridge for a Gatorade. “Želim eno?”

“Yeah.” He catches the bottle Sasha throws at him, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He shakes the sting out of his fingers and frowns at Sasha. “And speak English. You need practice.”

“Whatever.” Sasha rolls his eyes again as he opens his bottle and takes a long sip.

“You have a client tonight?”

“Yeah. Later.” Sasha’s words are accented, but clear. “Pick-up game first. Wanna come?”

Anže waffles, but his ass is still a little sore and he’s a bit tired and, besides, he has other plans for the evening, so he shakes his head. “Nah. I need a shower. And a nap.”

“Going out again tonight?”

“Nah, probably not. Brian always pays well.”

“You get all the good ones.” Sasha grins at him, reaching over the couch to kiss his cheek again. “Don’t wait up.”

“Pazi.”

Sasha gives him a cocky grin, “seveda,” before disappearing out the door.

Anže sighs, opening his Gatorade. He loves Sasha. He’s Anže’s best friend, his countryman, the only one in Southern California who can cook decent smorn and the only one who knows Anže’s real name. Without him, the apartment is unsettlingly quiet, and Anže knows that Sasha feels similarly agitated when Anže isn’t there. Sasha knows everything, and Anže’s stomach twists at the thought of lying to him. But, if Sasha found out what he was planning, he’d rant and yell, tell Anže that he was being reckless, and Anže doesn’t need Sasha to tell him that. He can berate himself well enough on his own, and, in the end, none of it matters because he’s going to do this anyway. He has to. It’s in his blood.

Smiling to himself, he finishes off the Gatorade, drops it in the recycling bin, and grabs his things from the back of his closet. Triple-locking the door behind him, he can’t stop grinning as he practically jogs to the corner to call a cab.

Translations:  
To je kul = This is cool (slang)  
želim eno = want one?  
Pazi = be careful  
Seveda = of course

Smorn = traditional Slovenian pancake

***

Most of the time, Jonathan Quick is grateful to the Browns. When he was a rookie, they put him up in their guest room, and Nicole was never anything but gracious to him even though she was a newly wed and pregnant and had every right to resent him for disrupting their last few quiet months. He had been young, gangly, unsure of himself, and they had been kind and gentle and patient.

When their second son was born, Jon had quickly realized that the house was too small for him and their growing family. When he had approached Dustin with the idea of moving out, however, Dustin had called his bluff. The next morning, there were contractors and painters and construction workers to convert the space above the garage into a fully-functional apartment. Well, functional for a hockey player.

Jon is forever grateful. He’d be lost without the noise and the people and the homemade cooking. A night or two a week of babysitting duties is a small price to pay for the family he gets in return. Sometimes, however, Jon craves a night lounging on the couch in his boxers with only a beer and Homer Simpson for company.

“Jon?”

“Up here,” Jon calls, sighing and swallowing the rest of his beer as he sits up to make room for Dustin on the couch. “Hey.”

“Hey? You’ve been gone for two months. All I get is a ‘hey’?”

“Fuck you.” Jon grabs Dustin’s head in a headlock and kisses his cheek, loud and wet.

“Ugh.” Dustin wipes his cheek, but he’s grinning. “Welcome back.”

“Yeah, thanks. Beer?”

Dustin shakes his head. “No. We’re going out.”

“Out?” Jon glances at the clock. It’s almost midnight. “Training camp starts tomorrow.” Dustin shrugs and Jon rolls his eyes. “You’re the captain. You should be more, you know, responsible.”

“I am.” Dustin’s still grinning. “Responsible, that is.”

Jon rolls his eyes and leans his head back along the back of the couch. “Whatever. I’m exhausted.”

“Time change.” Dustin nods his head sagely. Jon hits him with a pillow. “Best way to get back on California time is to stay up late.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Almost.” Dustin agrees, standing up and holding out a hand to Jon. “Come on. And bring a sweatshirt.”

Reluctantly, Jon takes the offered hand, but before he can argue any more, Dustin’s gone, down the stairs and out the door. Grumbling, Jon wonders, not for the first time, what Lombardi was thinking making Dustin captain. 

He hears a honk from outside, and he knows that Nicole is going to blame him if Dustin’s impatience wakes the kids, so Jon wanders into his small bedroom. He hasn’t even been home long enough to unpack, so he digs through his suitcase and finds his Kings’ hoodie before jogging down the stairs and climbing into Dustin’s dirty Mercedes.

“Dude, you need to wash your car.”

“I’ll put it on your list of chores.”

“Yeah, not going to happen.” He bends his head to fiddle with the radio until Dustin slaps his hand away.

“Stop.”

“You dragged me out in the middle of the night - we’re gonna listen to something decent.” He settles on a rap station that he knows puts Dustin’s teeth on edge. Without looking over, he settles against the window and sings alone even though he only knows every few words. He can almost hear Dustin’s teeth grinding.

Dustin doesn’t rise to the bait, however. In fact, he seems excited and full of pent-up energy as he drums his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music. He’s off-rhythm, and Jon’s just about to call him on it when they pull up outside of “The Staples Center? Seriously?”

Dustin ignores him as he puts the car in park and jumps out. “Come on.”

“We have camp in the morning. Won’t you have enough time to torture me then?” Jon whines, but he gets out of the car and follows. When they get to the side service door, Dustin pulls out a key that Jon’s sure he isn’t supposed to have. “In LA for 24 hours and we’re already breaking and entering.”

Dustin holds the door open and ushers Jon in. “And now you’re an accomplice, so don’t bother bitching about it.”

“Cops would totally believe me over you.”

Jon glances back and Dustin raises an eyebrow at him. And, right, Dustin’s the Captain and has that trusting face and Jon knows he’d be totally screwed if it came down to a he said-he said. Dustin takes the moment to step in front and lead the way through the bowels of the Staples Center until they come out around the top of Section 101.

Dustin takes a seat in the middle of the row and Jon falls into the chair next to him, pulling on his sweatshirt and slipping off his flip-flops to rest his feet on the chair in front of him. “What are we doing here?”

Dustin nods out to the ice and Jon follows his gaze and suddenly he forgets that it’s 4 am Connecticut time and he forgets that he’s been goading Dustin all night for bringing him here. Dropping his feet to the floor, he rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, squinting his eyes. “That’s-”

“Yeah,” Dustin says softly, but Jon ignores him in favor of watching Anže on the ice. Anže’s good. Very good. He’s playing a modified game of three-post, dodging imaginary defensemen and forcing himself to shoot from near-impossible angles. The puck clangs off the post 8 times out of 10 and each time the sound rings through the empty arena, Jon leans forward a little bit more. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes as he sits like that, barely moving, before Dustin’s hand presses down on his shoulder. Jon glances over, and Dustin tips his head to the side. Without a word, Jon follows him out and back into the car.

They’re halfway home before Jon leans forward to turn off the radio. “He’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s he from?”

Dustin shrugs without taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t know.”

“Damn it Dustin-”

Dustin sighs, turning off the highway and glancing over at Jon, whose eyes are wide and hands are shaking. “I don’t know much more than you do. Last week I went to the rink for a late-night workout. He was there. And he’s been there almost every night since.”

“Huh.” Jon turns his head to look at Dustin. “Do you know his name?”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“Huh.”

“But, Jon-” Dustin swallows, hesitating for a moment. “We’re so close. It’s almost our time. I can taste it. And it’s up to me.” He glances over. “And you. We’ve been waiting so long, and- And he could be that last piece we need.”

Jon nods. After years of being on the outside looking in at the playoffs, they had suffered their first, heart-breaking first-round lost last May. And while the organization has so far allowed them the time and space to grow and develop, Jon is beginning to feel the same press of expectation that Dustin feels. 

For now, though, Jon’s mind is back at the Staples Center.

Dustin reaches over and squeezes his knee. “Go to bed. We’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”

Jon hadn’t noticed that the car stopped, but, looking up, Jon sees that they’re home. He just nods distractedly at Dustin, before slipping out of the car and up to his garage apartment without saying another word.

***

“So, what’s the plan?”

Dustin looks up as Jon practically bounds into the kitchen the next morning. He looks rested and energized, so different than the person he was yesterday, and Dustin grins as he turns back to trying to get Mason to eat his oatmeal. “A plan for what?”

Jon stops fiddling with the coffee maker just long enough to glare. “To get the kid.”

Dustin’s still grinning as Mason accepts a spoonful. “My plan was to show you, so that _you_ could come up with a plan.”

“We should talk to Coach Murray.”

Mason makes a face as he pushes the bowl away, and Dustin sighs, letting him hop off the chair and race into the other room. Jon snags the vacated seat and takes a bite of his peanut butter toast. Dustin reaches for the coffee maker to refill his cup. “We need to know more first. We don’t even know the guy’s name. Or where he’s from. Or why we’ve never heard of him before.”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe he was injured.”

“Maybe.” Dustin shrugs. “But until we know more, I think we should keep this just between us, yeah?”

“Sure,” Jon agrees, taking a long sip of coffee and already making plans in his head.

***

Anže’s running late. It’s the first time that Anže’s been foolish enough to skate before an appointment with a client, but it had been a few days since he’d been to the rink and the client didn’t want to meet until late. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, even if his thighs feel shaky and spent and he’s still sweating at his hairline.

It doesn’t help that this new client wants to meet at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The place makes him nervous, with its marble entryways and white leather sofas and its lobby full of true Hollywood elite. The client had asked to meet in the lobby, so Anže stands next to a Venetian column, trying not to look unrefined and underdressed in his tight jean shorts and black t-shirt. After a moment, he feels ridiculous, so he takes a seat in one of the large, over-stuffed, white leather armchairs and hopes that he’ll stick out a little less if he crosses his legs.

It’s getting late, and he’s halfway through his second time reading September’s edition of _Cosmo_ when he feels feet stop next to him. He drops the magazine to the coffee table and stands.

“You’re-” The man glances down at a crumpled napkin in his hand, squinting to make out the writing on it, before peering over the top of his glasses at Anže, “Aron?”

Anže nods. 

“Good, good.” The man stuffs the napkin into his pocket. “I’m sorry I’m late. There was traffic on the 110 and then the valet wasn’t- You know what, never mind. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s fine,” Anže says quickly, before his client can talk himself out of this meeting. “I’m patient.”

The man seems a little unsure of what to make of that. “That’s, um- That’s good.” 

Anže tries to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s really fine. I haven’t been waiting long.” 

The man opens his mouth, obviously wanting to ask something else, but then he seems to remember where they are, what they’re doing, and he closes it again, his lips thinning. Instead, he wipes his palm on his thigh and holds out his hand. “I’m Matt.”

Anže takes his hand, shaking it. “Matt.”

“Yeah, ah-” Matt stops, dropping Anže’s hand and glancing over his shoulder before moving his head closer to Anže’s. “David told me you were discrete, but, this is- You’re good.” Anže nods reassuringly. He’s good at discrete. It’s why most of his clients are sent to him. But then Matt frowns, looking closer at him. “You, um, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”

Anže peers at him. Something’s wiggling at the back of his mind, but he tries to remember if Matt looks like one of the guys from the clubs or one of Sasha’s clients, and nothing comes to mind. He smiles apologetically. “No. Should I?”

Matt shrugs. “I’m famous.”

Anže raises an eyebrow. “Everyone in this town is famous.”

“Right.” Matt frowns for a moment, then he grins and shakes his head. “This,” he waves his hand between their chests, “is gonna work out fine. Just fine.” He takes Anže’s elbow and steers him towards the elevator bays. 

They step in, Matt’s hand on the small of Anže’s back ushering him forward, and Matt doesn’t move it when the elevator door closes. It’s quiet, Matt shifting anxiously behind him, and Anže clears his throat. “What are you famous for?”

“I’m an actor,” Matt tells him, but it’s not the normal, pompous, ‘I'm an actor,’ that Anže normally gets from Hollywood A-listers. Matt gives him a self-deprecating little smirk and Anže decides that he likes him. “You really don’t know me?”

Anže shrugs. “I’m Swedish.” All his clients believe he’s Swedish.

“Swedish?” Matt looks thoughtful for a moment. “I was in Stockholm once for a press tour.”

“You liked it?”

“Yeah.” Matt’s hand tightens on his back. “Nice people.”

Anže nods. “Very.”

“ _Friends_ was dubbed in Swedish. I think.” They reach their floor, and Matt leads him down the hall as he fishes in his pocket for his key. “It’s a television show. A famous one.”

“I watch a lot of movies.”

Matt lets out a choked chuckle, shaking his head and grinning at Anže. “You’re refreshing, you know that? Do you mind if I call you again?”

“You don’t know if you like me yet.” Anže points out, motioning his chin towards the bed as they enter the room.

Matt closes the door, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans and eyeing Anže’s body. “I’m not worried.”

***

“Jebanje.” Sasha swears as he settles on the couch next to Anže. “I’m sore.”

Anže laughs, but gets up to pour him a cup of coffee. “You shouldn’t work out on nights you have to work.”

Sasha glares, but gratefully accepts the mug. “I need to keep in shape.” He flexes his bicep at Anže, who laughs hard enough that he has to place his own cup on the coffee table. Sasha hits the back of his head. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” Anže promises.

“Magarac,” Sasha grumbles. Anže just flashes him a smile and grabs the remote control off the coffee table. He flips through the channels before settling on a generic, slickly-produced gangster movie. They watch for a while, waiting for the coffee to kick in, until Sasha sits up a little straighter and kicks Anže’s ankle where it rests on the coffee table. “Hey, where were you last night?”

“Huh?” Anže pretends to barely hear him, taking a long sip of his coffee.

“When I got home, you weren’t here. You didn’t say you had a job.”

“I didn’t?” Anže feigns. Anže hadn’t known how to explain away the hours spent at the Staples Center before meeting Matt, so he hadn’t told Sasha about any of it.

Sasha peers at him seriously. “Anže, we promised to never go on a job without letting the other know.”

“I know, I know. And I won’t.” Anže frowns. “Again.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Jebanje, Sasha, I know that.” Anže turns to look at him, sighing deeply. “I went to the gym,” he lies. “Before I met the new client. He’s an actor,” Anže tries for distraction.

Sasha ignores him. “At one in the morning?”

Anže shrugs. “I was feeling restless. Needed to get out for a bit.”

Sasha looks him over, as if expecting to find some physical proof that Anže is lying to him. He frowns. “Zaskrbelo me je zate.”

Sasha’s gaze is too much, so he rests his head against Sasha’s shoulder. It’s comfortable and warm and Anže feels so bad about lying that he almost tells his secret, but instead he says, softly, “Žàl mi je.”

“It’s okay.” Sasha says quietly, kissing his forehead. “Just leave a note next time.”

Anže chuckles. “Obljubim.” 

Sasha must believe him, because he leans forward, his eyes sparkling. “What kind of actor?”

Translations:

Jebanje = fuck (Bosnian – as there are few curse words in Slovene, most Slovenians curse in Bosnian, Serbian, or Croatian)  
Magarac = jack ass (again, Bosnian)  
Zaskrbelo me je zate = I was worried about you  
Žàl mi je = I’m sorry  
Obljubim = I promise

***

**October 2010**

Anže waves his arms, shouting, “I’m open,” then “Jag är öppen,” in Swedish. It’s the language they let the world know that they speak with each other. Hearing it and grinning, Sasha passes the ball and Anže dribbles closer for an easy lay-up. Sasha whoops and gives him a high-five to the groans of their friends.

“You’ll get us next time,” Sasha tells them cheerfully, dribbling the ball as he jogs over to grab his bag from the edge of the court. 

“Yeah, right.” Sam scoffs, clapping Anže on the back and shaking his head. “Your friend’s good enough to be with the Lakers.” He’s grinning, though, as he looks at Sasha and it’s not the first time Anže’s noticed the look. “We’re heading to Joe’s for a drink.”

Anže shakes his head, shouldering his own bag. “Sorry, we’ve got plans for tonight. Next week?”

“Sure.” Sam looks regretfully ahead of them and Anže waves apologetically as he jogs to catch up with Sasha.

It’s still pretty warm in LA in October, and the courts are part of a public park in walking distance of their apartment, so they don’t bother with a cab. “You could stay,” Anže suggests gently as he catches up then slows to match Sasha’s pace.

Sasha shrugs, his shoulders curled inwards and his chin tipped down towards his chest. Anže bumps his shoulder against Sasha’s. “Sam asked after you-” 

“I’ve got a job tonight,” Sasha interrupts distractedly, looking sideways at Anže. “Do you miss it?”

Anže’s not sure if Sasha means having a boyfriend or playing hockey, but he swallows. “Everyday.” 

He still hasn’t told Sasha about his late-night break-ins at the Staples Center. He’s been almost every night over the past month and he doesn’t know if he could stop now. Back in Slovenia, before he was branded and forced off the ice and into the bed of well-connected Swedish businessmen, hockey had been all he ever thought about. These nights, when he stands at center ice and closes his eyes, he can still remember what it was like to dream of break-away goals and Stanley Cups, and it feels amazing.

“Yeah.” Sasha suddenly grins, immediately snapping out of his mood and straightening his shoulders. “Hey, the Canucks are in town tonight.”

Anže laughs. “Keeping tabs on the Kings’ schedule?”

Sasha shrugs. “It’s the highlight of the month. He call yet?”

“Last night,” Anže admits, and he can’t help smiling, because Sasha’s right. Of all the well-known regulars they both have, ranging from B-level actors to well-placed Eastern European businessmen, Ryan Kesler is Anže’s favorite. They met a couple of years ago, right after Anže arrived in LA, introduced by a series of complicated relationships between Kesler’s PR agent and Anže’s first client. Anže had still been nervous and inexperienced then, but Kesler had been easy and fun and, most importantly, Kesler was the closest Anže thought he was ever going to get to playing hockey. 

Sasha drapes an arm over his shoulders, jarring Anže out of his thoughts with a grin and a loud kiss on Anže’s cheek. “Make sure you shower first.” Sasha wrinkles his nose and Anže pushes him away as they reach their apartment building. 

“Magarac.” Anže chuckles, jogging up the stairs to beat Sasha to the shower.

Translations:

Jag är open = I’m open (Swedish)  
Magarac = jack ass (Bosnian)

***

Anže is showered and dressed in time to catch the end of the Kings-Canucks game on the TV in Kesler’s hotel room. The Canucks lose 4-1, and Kesler’s never in the best mood after a loss, so Anže makes sure to order steak and beer from room service so that it arrives at about the same time Kesler does.

“Did you watch the game?” Kesler asks as he dumps his bag next to the bed and joins Anže at the small table by the window. He picks up the beer that is already open and waiting for him, finishing half of it in one sip.

“Saw the end of it.”

“Good game, eh?” Kesler shakes his head, and finishes off the beer. He grabs another one from the mini-bar.

Anže shrugs. “Your passing was off.” It’s accurate, if vague. While Anže assumes that Kesler keeps hiring him more because of these hockey talks than the sex, he’s still reluctant to talk too much hockey strategy in case Kesler grows suspicious.

Kesler grumbles. “We were never in position tonight.”

Anže nods. “You need to work on your backchecking.”

Kesler finishes off his second beer and takes the lid off his steak. “Mmm, this smells good. For hotel steak, at least.”

Anže takes a small bite of his own and nods. “I flirted with the chef when I called.”

Kesler laughs, his mouth full, and points to the corner of the room with his knife. “Your envelope’s in my bag.”

Nodding, Anže pushes back from the table and finds the envelope in the outer pocket of Kesler’s bag. He grabs his own bag and heads into the bathroom, giving Kesler the time to finish eating and calm down from the game, and himself a chance to clean up and count the money in secret. Satisfied, he puts the envelope at the bottom of his bag and strips for the shower.

He takes the time to stretch himself to three fingers, knowing from experience that the beer and the game will make this a quick night. When he feels loose and comfortable, he steps out of the water and wraps a towel around his hips, not bothering with clothes.

Kesler has stripped down to his boxers when Anže steps into the room. Anže can see that he’s already hard and when Anže steps close enough, Kesler reaches out with his free hand to undo the twist that’s holding the towel together and it falls to the floor. “I may have been thinking about this for a couple of days.”

“Is that right?” Anže asks.

“Mmm.” Kesler turns them around and pushes Anže onto his knees on the bed, pausing to run a hand over Anže’s ass appreciatively. “You know, you have a hockey player’s body.”

“Is that why you like fucking me so much?” Anže asks as he turns his head to glance at Kesler. Kesler nods distractedly, fishing on the bed next to him for the condom. Anže closes his eyes and settles his weight on one elbow, reaching back to push three fingers into his ass.

“Fuck,” Kesler groans, climbing onto the bed and hitting Anže’s hand out of the way as he presses in in one thrust. “Fuck, yes,” he repeats, grasping at Anže’s hips and setting a fast, hard rhythm.

Anže presses both hands to the mattress, using the leverage to push into Kesler’s thrusts. Kesler murmurs, “Jesus,” and then the room is filled with grunts and moans and the slick sound of skin on skin. As he gets close, Kesler leans forward, nipping at the skin of Anže’s spine and biting down, once, on his shoulder blade as his body shudders and he comes.

Kesler rolls onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I needed that.”

“Anytime,” Anže grins, turning onto his back and brushing the back of his hand along Kesler’s softening dick.

Kesler shivers. “Jesus, Aron.” He bends his knees to roll into a sitting position. “I’m too old for this shit.”

Anže raises an eyebrow. “Hockey? Or fucking?”

“Both.” Kesler reaches over to trace the bite on Anže’s shoulder. “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”

Anže shrugs. “It’s okay. I expect it from you.”

“Asshole,” Kesler laughs, getting off the bed and picking up the towel Anže dropped there earlier. He throws it at Anže’s head. “I’ll be back in March.”

Anže nods. He had checked the calendar before coming tonight. “You have my number.”

“Yeah.” Kesler flashes him a grin before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Anže cleans himself as best he can with the towel, takes a large bite of the cold steak that’s only half-eaten on the table, and is gone before Kesler gets out of the shower.

***

“Maybe he has a criminal record.” Jon muses as he collapses into the seat next to Dustin.

“Mmm.”

“No, just listen.” Dustin nods without looking up from his phone. “You can’t be drafted if you have a record, right?”

“It may amaze you that I have no idea.”

“Hmm.” Jon pulls out his phone to run a Google search, but he’s getting iffy service and he has to turn his phone off before he can get an answer. He leans his head back and closes his eyes for take-off. The minute they reach 10,000 feet, he turns to look at Dustin again. “Maybe he robbed a bank, or shot his step-dad or something.”

Dustin reluctantly opens his eyes. “You’re not allowed to watch any more Lifetime movies.”

“That one with the abused girl was pretty good,” Jon argues.

“Do you hear yourself?” Dustin asks, raising an eyebrow.

But Jon’s looking pensive again. “Maybe he’s getting over psychological trauma.”

Dustin groans, hitting his head on the back of the chair and frowning when Drew Doughty kicks him in the back. “Hey,” Dustin complains as he turns around to glare at Drew.

“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to nap.” Drew frowns at them and Jon sighs, turning around in his chair and lowering his voice.

“I just need to know.” 

“There’re nothing we can do until we get back to LA,” Dustin reminds him, before closing his eyes and turning his head towards the window.

Jon sighs. Dustin’s right. They’re three games into a five game road trip, and Jon really needs to focus on his game. He let in four goals in both Phoenix and Colorado, and his two-goal effort against Minnesota last night had much more to do with his defenseman than any spectacular play on his part. 

He’s distracted. Has been since they left LA. He feels tired and achy, like there’s something just there, something that he can understand if he just tries a little harder. When he sleeps, his dreams are filled with kisses and hoisting the Stanley Cup, images that feel so real that they have him gasping and shaking when he wakes up. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t sleep. He lies awake, listening to Justin Williams’s snoring late into the night. 

During every free moment, he’s iPad hunting for something, anything, that points to a brilliant hockey player that was never drafted. Jon knows he’s being obsessive. It’s part of his personality, the same part that makes him a good, dedicated, athletic goaltender. 

“You’re thinking too loud.” 

“Sorry,” Jon grunts, closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind for a short nap before they land in Chicago.

***

Jon’s lying on his bed, halfway between finishing his post-flight nap and searching on his iPad, when there’s a knock on the door. Justin mutes the TV as he scoots off the bed to open it.

“Captain says we’re going out.” Drew grins at them. He’s dressed in jeans and one of those artfully-expensive t-shirts. 

Justin looks back at Jon, who hasn’t moved from his bed, and shakes his head. “We’re kinda tired. Gonna stay in tonight.”

Drew shrugs. “Cap says it’s not optional. Be in the lobby in 15 minutes. And be dressed.” He says the last to Jon, who grumbles as he rolls off the bed and steps into the bathroom.

A shower, a beer, and twenty minutes later, Jon is in the lobby with most of the team. He’s about to join JJ, Stollie, and Richie in a cab when a hand grips his shoulder, holding him back. Jon rolls his eyes, stepping back onto the curb and slipping his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

“I’m not going to run away,” he promises.

Dustin laughs and pushes Jon into a separate cab with just the two of them. “I want you to have fun tonight,” he tells Jon, all serious and noble, as if he’s telling Jon to do five more sets of sprints.

“Whatever.” Jon glances out the window to watch the lake as it flies by. “We have a game tomorrow.”

“I know.” Dustin raises an eyebrow at him. “You need to relax.”

Jon spreads his arms. “I’m relaxed.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Dustin eyes Jon’s dress pants and expensive shirt and nods. “You clean up nicely, too.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Your wife picked ‘em out.”

The taxi rolls to a stop and Jon climbs out as Dustin laughs. “Mine too. We’re probably wearing the same pants.”

“Fuck, I hope not.”

“Language, Quickie.” Jon turns and finds himself in a tight hug with Patrick Kane.

“Kaner,” Jon laughs. “Should have known you were behind this get-together.”

Kaner punches his shoulder. “Answer your texts, fucker, and you would have already known that.”

Jon pulls his phone out of his pocket and sees that it’s off. “Probably never turned it on after we landed.”

“Asshole.” But Kaner’s grinning at him, clapping his shoulder again and pulling him towards the club. “Follow me. Sub 51 is one of the best places in town, and we’re on the list.” He grins, as if he’s still a little awed by his high-profile status and Jon has to smile at him. 

The club is nice, intimate, with pulsing music and strong drinks, and Jon finds that Kaner’s energy is infectious. He allows himself to be pulled to a table with Brownie and JJ so that they can reminisce about their run to a silver medal at the Olympics last February. Reminiscing consists mostly of Kaner reenacting his game-winning goal in the preliminary round, standing and twisting his hands as if he’s dekeing and they all have a good laugh remembering Loungo’s face until Tazer leans over from the next table and whispers in Kaner’s ear.

Kaner blushes and flashes his cup ring at Tazer. “Whatever, fucker, I’ve got the one that matters.”

Tazer laughs, grabbing Kaner’s flailing hand before he can hit their waitress. His eyes are sparkling. “I’ve got one of those, too, asshole.”

“Right.” Kaner looks crushed for a moment, as if he really hadn’t remembered that fact, until he brightens up and leans forward to whisper in Tazer’s ear. It’s Tazer’s turn to flush, and he claps a hand over Kaner’s mouth.

“I’m never letting you out in public again.” He drops his hand and stands. “Dance floor?”

Kaner grins, grabbing JJ’s hand and following Tazer with a quick, “don’t get into too much trouble without me,” thrown back at the table.

Jon’s still grinning, his cheeks a little sore from it, when he feels Dustin put his hand on Jon’s knee to steady himself as he leans closer. His breath smells like the whiskey he’s been drinking as his breath brushes Jon’s face. “I want one of those.”

“One of what?” Jon teases, glancing at Kaner’s deserted drink. “A martini? Have Kaner’s. He’ll never notice.”

“Not-” Dustin shakes his head, exasperated. “A cup ring, Jonny.”

Jon stretches back in his seat, taking a long sip of his Bacardi. “It’s all I think about.”

Dustin shakes his head. “It’s not. You think about-” He waves his hand and frowns. “He needs a name.”

“They’re related. Him and a Cup. Like you said that first day, we’re so close.” Jon catches Dustin’s eye. He’s been thinking about this for over a month, since the first time Dustin took him to the rink late at night. He’s tried to talk about it, but Dustin’s been focused on the new season and Jon knows he’s probably been talking about it too much but, “I see him, Brownie, when I close my eyes, I see him.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe.” He leans his elbow on the table, putting him even closer to Dustin. “But what does it matter?”

Dustin looks at him for a long moment. “I don’t know if I trust your motives,” he says softly, before tipping his head back and finishing his drink.

Jon frowns. Dustin’s made similar intimations over the last few weeks, hinted at things as if Jon’s supposed to know what they mean. “I don’t know what-”

“You really think this guy is it? He’s the one?” Dustin interrupts. 

Dustin’s gazing at him again and Jon can’t shake the feeling that he’s still missing a huge piece of the puzzle, a piece that Dustin knows but is refusing to share. But Jon nods. “I do.” 

“Okay.” Dustin sits back, looking much more sober than he did a minute or so ago. “Okay. When we get back to LA, I’ll help in whatever way I can.” He pushes his chair back and stands before Jon can say anything. “But tonight we’re gonna have fun.”

Jon can’t help but feel like this moment is important, as if something monumental has just passed between them, but Jon doesn’t know what it is. The music is reverberating through the club, Drew and JJ are dancing with Kaner and Tazer out on the floor, and when Jon glances over Kaner ushers for him to join them. Pushing aside the feeling, Jon finishes off his drink and follows Dustin out onto the dance floor.

***

Jon feels better after his night in Chicago. He feels comfortable and relaxed in the net in a way he hasn’t all season and, although they lose the next night to the Blackhawks, they go on to beat Dallas in their last game of the roadtrip. 

While Jon’s on-ice play has improved, however, he hasn’t been able to get his conversation with Dustin out of his head. He knows that they made a decision that night, a decision he has to follow through on now that they’re back in LA. So, when they have nothing but a light skate on the day they get back, Jon has no excuse not to go to the Staples Center.

He doesn’t know if he wishes to find Anže there or not. But, when he sees Anže, on the ice, looking comfortable and fluid and so good, Jon feels an ache that he can’t really explain. He doesn’t even question his actions as he follows Anže as he leaves the rink.

He does wish, however, that he had watched a James Bond movie or two as he follows the beat-up Jeep onto the 110. It’s harder to trail a car than he thought it would be, although Jon supposes that Bond never had to contend with LA freeways in a conspicuous Mercedes. Not for the first time, Jon wishes that he had been a little humbler with his car purchase, but he had bought it after signing his first pro contract and the sleek elegancy of a status symbol had been too hard for a twenty-one year old to pass up.

Thankfully, LA traffic is horrendous on Friday nights, even at midnight, and it’s easy to let himself fall a couple of cars back from the Jeep. Which works perfectly, until he has to take a quick exit onto the 101 and almost misses when the Jeep turns onto Melrose Avenue. They drive a couple of heart-wrenchingly empty blocks, but as they get closer to West Hollywood, the lights and the people pick up again and Jon lets out the breath he’s been holding.

The Jeep stops in front of a non-descript building. Up the street, there are bars and nightclubs and Jon can hear the laughter and screaming of a late Friday night filter down the block to where he is parked. This building, however, is not marked by anything but an old Jabell Enterprice, LLC sign and a couple of street lights.

Jon hesitates for only a moment before jogging down the stairs and pushing open large, strong doors. He’s immediately assaulted by two bouncers who eye him up and down, and Jon’s glad that he decided to dress in the same expensive, presentable dress pants and shirt that he had worn in Chicago earlier that week. He fishes his license out of his wallet, but the bouncer to his left shakes his head.

“You’re Jonathan Quick. Of the Kings.”

It’s not really a question, but Jon nods. “I’m meeting a friend.” It’s vague and, to Jon, it sounds suspicious, but the other bouncer just nods his head and holds open a second couple of doors for him. Jon nods his thanks, slipping him a $5 bill as he passes into what appears to be a typical dance club. 

It’s loud and semi-lit and Jon makes his way over to the bar for a beer and a place to catch his breath. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but after weeks of speculation he had started to believe his own wild tales of medical experimentation or Eastern European mob ties. Instead, when he finds his target, he’s on the dance floor pressed against someone who looks vaguely familiar. In fact, most of the people here look vaguely familiar, and Jon blinks as he looks around, taking in the large _M Cat 67_ neon sign above the entrance and it clicks into place.

The first year Jon had made the Kings out of training camp, he’d been pulled into GM Dean Lombardi’s office and handed a packet. Lombardi had patted his shoulder with a, “we’re hear if you ever need anything, kid,” and then sent him on his way. Later that night, he had locked himself in his bedroom at Dustin’s and spilled the contents of the envelope onto his bed. It contained a number of things, most importantly the phone number of the Kings’ PR team, a key to room 1607 at the Hilton Downtown, and a list of what Jon could only guess were clubs for the LA elite and closeted. 

Before Jon had been able to pack it all away, Dustin had opened his door to invite him down for dinner, stopping when he saw the papers. “They gave you the packet, huh?”

“You-” Jon had been shocked. “You know?”

Dustin had just shrugged. “They’ve been watching you for a long time, Quickie. They just want you to be happy here and, well, I’m in charge of your well-being. For now.”

“You won’t tell?”

“’Course not.” Dustin had just smiled at him, shaking his head. “Dinner’s ready. Nicole made pork chops.”

And that’s the last Jon had ever heard of it. He had packed the information away at the bottom of his underwear drawer and had never looked at it again. Jon threw himself into training and redefining his goaltending style, Dustin never mentioned it, and Jon had almost forgotten about the whole embarrassing incident. 

Except, _M Cat 67_ tickles the edge of his memory, and now Jon remembers that it had been at the top of that list and all of this makes a little more sense. Why the bouncers had let him in after simply recognizing him, why the club’s sign is inside rather than outside the building, and why everyone here looks familiar. Because they are, from the cover of _Entertainment Weekly_ and _Rolling Stone_ and _Wired_ and all the other magazines that Jon reads when he’s bored at LAX.

Jon motions to the bartender for something a little stronger than a beer, dropping a $20 on the bar and moving onto the dance floor with the drink in hand. He feels a hand at his hip and he turns, a few feet away from Anže, stepping into the hand. The guy is tall and blond, smiling at him. He isn’t exactly Jon’s type, but he’s attractive and here and much better than Jon’s original plan to stand in the middle of the dance floor alone, until he was noticed. 

The blond doesn’t say anything when Jon places his free hand on his shoulder and turns them around, and Jon’s grateful for the anonymity of a place like this. From this angle, if he bends his knees just right, he can see Anže’s face, clearer and stronger than he could from fifteen feet above in the stands at the Staples Center. He’s incredibly tall, with hair to his shoulders and strong forearms under the black button-down that he has rolled to his elbows. His jeans fit perfectly and Jon feels his dick twitch in his pants. 

The blond raises an appraising eyebrow. “Jake,” he says loudly, over the music, and Jon just nods without looking away as Anže raises his head. His eyes are crystal blue, intense and powerful, and when they settle on Jon, Jon feels as if he’s the center of Anže’s world. Without thinking, he pushes away from Jake and moves forward with a quick “Sorry” for Anže’s previous dance partner. 

Anže laughs, his eyes glittering, and he leans forward to whisper in Jon’s ear. “You’re new.”

“Yeah.” Jon shakes his head. “Obvious?”

“Yeah.” Anže laughs again, leaning forward to take a sip from Jon’s glass. “I’m Aron.”

Jon swallows, his eyes not moving from Anže’s lips. “Jon.”

“Mmm.” Anže lightly touches his hips and pulls him closer, and Jon feels that they’re both half-hard. “Do you want to take me home, Jon?”

Jon swallows the rest of his drink and reaches over to place it on a passing tray. He knows this is stupid, and not at all how he expected this night to go, but he’s feeling reckless and not a little bit turned on, so he nods. “Yeah. Please.”

Anže nods and pulls his hips back. “$600.” Jon has the insane urge to pull him close again, but settles on resting a hand lightly on Anže’s lower back, drawing circles, until Anže’s words register.

“What?”

Anže shrugs. “Thousand for the night.”

Jon’s whole body freezes and he feels dizzy. It’s a combination of the alcohol and the sudden answer to the one thing that’s been bothering him for weeks and the hundred new questions that come spilling out with that one answer. 

He takes a deep breath. “You’re a- a- prostitute?” Jon cringes at the crude word, but Anže just shrugs.

“Escort.”

“Right.”

“It’s more accurate.”

“Okay,” Jon nods, as if he’s done this before and he knows the differences between a prostitute and an escort, as if it doesn’t all boil down to the same damn thing.

“I’m-” Anže steps back, his eyes losing their luster and he looks a little disappointed. He tilts his head towards the bar. “I’m gonna go.”

“No,” Jon says, before he knows he’s saying it. All he can think about is how his body aches now that Anže’s a foot away and, suddenly, Jon remembers Dustin telling him _I don’t know if I trust your motives_ that night in Chicago. Jon hadn’t gotten it then, but now it all makes a little more sense because Jon doesn’t just want Anže on the team, Jon _wants_ him for himself. Has since the first day he saw Anže skate.

Anže looks uncertain, but Jon wraps his fingers around Anže’s wrist. “I mean, yes. A thousand, right?” Anže nods. Jon swallows. “I can do that.”

“Okay,” Anže says, slowly, his eyes still shuttered, and Jon steps forward, his hands going to Anže’s waist and pulling him in for a bruising kiss.

Jon feels himself falling into it, and he pulls away quickly. “Okay,” he whispers, his lips feeling warm and wet and he wipes them with his tongue. Anže’s eyes follow the movement, and Jon groans. “We’re going. Now.” He grabs Anže’s wrist and pulls him out of the club and into the street.

As they reach his Mercedes, he lets Anže go so that he can climb into the driver’s seat. He sits there for a moment, his mind racing as he realizes that he can’t take Anže back to his apartment above Dustin’s garage.

“Nice car.”

Anže’s voice makes him jump, and Jon gets an idea. He smiles as he puts the car in drive. “I’m a hockey player.”

“I know.”

And Jon can’t deal with that right now, so he reaches over to fiddle with the radio until they pull up in front of the Hilton. He tosses the keys to the attendant and glances over at Anže. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Anže nods. “Okay.” He leans against the edge of the check-in counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and Jon has to tear his eyes away to focus.

“Um, I need a key to room 1607. I seem to have lost mine.” Jon flashes a smile, pulling out his ID and thinking of the key still stashed away in his underwear drawer. The receptionist smiles and hands him a key without question and, for the first time, Jon is grateful for the organization’s PR people. “Thank you,” he accepts the key and slips her a tip before motioning towards the elevator bays.

They stand in silence as they wait for the elevator, Jon strumming his fingers against the wall and trying to calm both his mind and his dick. When the elevator comes, he leads Anže into it and doesn’t remove his hand from the small of Anže’s back as the doors close. He hesitates, then, because he can, he slips his hand into Anže’s back pocket. It feels sexy and forbidden and Jon has to remind himself that it’s okay. He’s paying for it. Literally.

Anže glances sideways at him. “You were watching me. Tonight.”

Jon nods. “I don’t have many, ah, opportunities like this.”

“Been a while?” Anže smirks and grasps Jon’s dick through his pants. Jon can’t help the little buck of his hips into Anže’s warm palm. He’s harder than he ever remembers being, and he has to glance down to make sure that he hasn’t popped the zipper on his jeans.

“Oh god,” Jon whimpers, protesting when the elevator bings and Anže pulls away. He takes the key from Jon’s fingers, leading the way to the room and pushing Jon into it. The moment the door shuts behind him, Jon grabs Anže’s wrist and tries to pull him close, but Anže resists.

“I’m going to freshen up. Put the money on the table.”

Jon watches him disappear into the bathroom, and fishes out his wallet. He’s thankful that Dustin’s insane and worried that there’s going to be an apocalypse or something every time they leave LA and makes everyone carry cash on road trips. Jon hasn’t emptied his wallet yet, so he has an obscene number of $100 bills that he pulls out and dumps onto the dresser.

He glances around the room and he feels his erection wilt. It hits him that this is exactly what the team has this room for, and he can’t help wondering how many of the other guys use it, and whether they have mistresses or girlfriends or whether anyone else thinks it’s a good idea to hire high-priced gay escorts. He’s halfway to panicking when the bathroom door opens and Anže steps out, placing a condom packet and a bottle of lube on the bedside table. Any softness in his dick is gone in an instant and Jon sways from the heat rush.

Anže moves towards him. “This your first time?” He asks as he toes out of his shoes and pushes Jon onto the bed.

Jon frowns as he sprawls on the bed. “No.”

Anže lays over him and whispers into his ear. “Liar.” Anže’s breath is warm and Jon groans, arching his hips and throwing a questioning look towards Anže. He shrugs, reaching down to grasp Jon in his pants again. “You’re easy to read.”

“Hmm,” Jon whispers, but anything else he’s about to say is cut off as Anže’s fingers tease at the edge of Jon’s t-shirt. Jon’s skin feels warm and tender, almost painful under Anže’s questing touches. Anže moves slowly, as if sensing that Jon’s way over his head here, inching slowly up Jon’s chest and urging him to lift enough to slip his shirt up and over his head.

Jon lies back down, and Anže bends his head to nip at Jon’s left nipple. Jon lets out a grunt and almost bucks Anže off the bed. The sensation is too much and he’s worried he’s going to come, right now, without more than a touch or two to his dick. The thought is embarrassing, and Jon blushes as he reaches down to open the button on his jeans and push them halfway down his thighs.

It’s forward, more so than Jon’s ever been before. But it’s either give Anže the hint of the century, or this will be over way too soon. Anže doesn’t seem to mind, anyway, just smirks up at Jon as he shimmies down Jon’s body. Anže’s weight is heavy and comforting on Jon’s legs as he slips a condom around him and doesn’t hesitate as he takes Jon into his mouth.

It’s warm and wet and amazing and Jon has to close his eyes and think of Teemu Selanne to keep from blowing the moment Anže’s lips touch his balls. Anže loosens his throat and takes Jon in deep, measured swallows and Jon’s fighting a losing battle. His dick throbs in Anže’s mouth and he pulls at Anže’s hair in warning before he cries out and comes in long, pulsing thrusts down Anže’s throat.

He’s still shaking, his hips moving in restless little thrusts. Anže keeps a reassuring hand on Jon’s hip as he pulls back, wiping at his mouth, and reaches towards the glass of water on the bedside table.

“Sorry. Fuck.” Jon’s voice is hoarse, and he turns his head on the pillow to gaze at Anže through half-closed lids. “I meant to last a little longer than that.” It’s meant to sound apologetic, but Jon can’t keep the lust and heat out of it.

Anže laughs, leaning back on his heels and lifting his shirt over his head. “Next time,” he promises, and Jon believes him. Jon would believe just about anything Anže tells him at the moment.

Now that the edge is off, Jon peels off the condom and takes the time to look at Anže, to take in the way he’s built perfectly for a hockey player. Jon wants to ask him why he’s giving blowjobs for money rather than playing, but Anže said ‘next time’ as if that was a real possibility and Jon isn’t noble enough to give up the opportunity to touch him. He feels a stab of lust and he sits up slightly, pulling at Anže ‘s shoulder until Anže stretches out along his body.

Anže is solid and heavy and hard, and Jon bucks up into him, his sensitive dick rubbing against the hard denim of Anže’s jeans. He whimpers, and Anže rolls to his side, but Jon rolls with him, catching Anže’s hand and stopping him. “Let me,” Jon whispers.

Anže hesitates, but then he nods and lays back and only flinches for a second when Jon runs a hand along his collarbone. Jon knows he’s being ridiculous. Anže’s a prostitute, he’s probably touched like this all the time, and the thought makes Jon furious. He gets onto his knees, nudging in-between Anže’s legs and leaning forward to press his nose into the bulge between Anže's thighs.

Anže grunts. “God, Jon, you don’t have to-”

“Mmm,” Jon murmurs against the cloth, parting his lips and breathing warm, moist air against Anže ‘s fly. Anže’s hips press off the mattress and into Jon’s mouth. Jon lifts his head. “I get to do what I want, yeah?”

Anže nods, as if he doesn’t know what to say, and Jon wonders if maybe this isn’t how he’s supposed to treat an escort, but when he gets his hand onto Anže’s dick and Anže’s head hits the mattress with a genuine gasp of pleasure and a “fuck, yes, så bra,” Jon can’t imagine _not_ touching him.

Jon pauses with Anže’s jeans halfway down his legs. “German?”

Anže peers down at him and they’re that same clear, piercing blue that they were the first time he looked at Jon in the club. “Swedish.” He kicks his feet so that his jeans fall to the floor and Jon forgets what he was about to ask because Anže isn’t wearing anything underneath and he’s spread out on the bed, bare and open and Jon swallows.

“Can I?”

Anže grabs the lube off the bedside table and pushes it into Jon’s hand. Anže’s thighs are loose and relaxed under his palms, and Jon has to close his eyes for a moment and count to ten to get himself under control. When he opens them, his fingers are shaking as he squeezes lube into his palm and, to distract himself, he licks the head of Anže’s erection as he slips the first finger in. 

“Jon-”

Anže’s voice is tinged with something that Jon would call amazement, and when he pulls off and glances up, Anže’s eyes are following him, wide and open. Jon grins at him, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly, before pressing in and searching with his fingertips until Anže gasps and arches his back off the bed, fingers scrambling at Jon’s shoulders.

“There, huh?” Anže nods and Jon presses again. Anže cries out, his back arching and his hand grasping wildly for another condom on the bedside table.

“You paid for your pleasure.”

Jon pulls his fingers out and leans up to whisper against Anže’s lips, “I enjoy pleasing you,” before catching him in a kiss. Anže responds, catching Jon’s tongue with his and he finds Jon’s hand and presses the condom into it. Jon pulls back, chuckling, but he tears open the packet and takes a deep breath before putting it on. “Ready?” He asks.

Anže shakes his head as if he’s bewildered by the question, but whispers “Ja. Vänligen,” and Jon assumes that’s ‘yes’ and hopes that it means ‘please,’ because Jon’s not strong enough to ask twice. 

He wraps his arms around the backs of Anže’s knees, hot and sweaty, and brings them to his shoulders. Slowly, with more control than he ever thought he had, he presses in until his balls hit against the warm, smooth skin of Anže’s ass. It’s warm and wet and tight and perfect. He lets out a low, guttural groan low in his throat.

“Fuck, that’s good.” Jon grunts, resting there, waiting to get his breath back and for Anže to loosen around him.

For a long moment, the air is filled with shallow breaths and the thick smell of masculinity, and then Anže reaches up to lay his palm flat against Jon’s chest. “Fuck me.” Anže twists Jon’s nipple between his fingers and Jon growls, surging forward to press a blind kiss to Anže’s chin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon murmurs and, when he’s reasonably sure he can move without coming immediately, he straightens his back and pulls out a short ways. He stops, gazing at Anže, who bucks his hips in invitation and that’s all Jon needs.

He sets a fast rhythm, snapping his hips and angling his thrusts so that he can rub against Anže’s prostrate over and over again. Each time, Anže growls and squeezes Jon’s cock, arching his hips and begging Jon to go faster, harder. Anže’s dick is red, jumping and bobbing between their chests and Jon leans forward so that it’s trapped between their bodies, sliding in the slick of their sweat. 

Jon’s never felt like this before and it’s only a matter of minutes before he loses all sense of rhythm or decorum and he digs his fingers into Anže’s calves and grunts with the exertion of building orgasm.

Anže’s calf flexes and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jon registers that their chests don’t provide enough friction for him to come. He drops Anže’s legs to the mattress, pressing one hand next to Anže’s head to hold his weight and grasping Anže’s erection with the other. Anže makes a sound of protest, but Jon kisses him, their lips red and swollen and salty, and Anže gives in, wrapping his legs around Jon’s waist and urging him closer and faster.

Jon feels it as Anže’s entire body flexes and shakes and then he’s pulling away from Jon’s mouth and coming in Jon’s fist with a cry of pleasure that Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. He flexes his own hips, barely holding on, and it’s only a few thrusts before he buries his head in Anže’s neck and his hips stutter and he closes his eyes as he comes.

“Jon?” Anže whispers, sometime later, and Jon groans, lifting his head and pulling away. Anže groans as he stretches against the mattress and Jon’s dick twitches as if wanting to show his appreciation, and Anže chuckles. “Again?”

Jon shakes his head regretfully. “Not tonight.”

Anže gives him a quick look, and Jon wonders if he said something wrong, but then Anže is moving off the bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Mmm,” Jon mutters into his pillow. He’s dozing when he hears the door to the bathroom open and he glances up to see Anže completely dressed. He takes the money off the counter, pushing it into his back pocket, and Jon frowns.

Anže leans over the bed to kiss him gently and Jon catches his hand. “Next time, eh?”

Anže nods, and he’s giving Jon that look again, but Jon’s already falling asleep and he doesn’t remember watching Anže leave. 

Translations:

så bra = so good (Swedish)  
Ja = yes  
Vänligen = please

***

Halloween is the best night of the year at _M Cat 67_. They host a costume party, complete with anonymity, live music, and free Miller Light. Most years, Anže and Sasha come dressed in tandem costumes that make it clear how available they are. This year, however, Anže presents Sasha with a pair of Lakers’ shorts. Sasha’s eyes go wide and adoring as he pulls them low onto his hips and turns around in front of the mirror. Anže laughs at him, but it feels good. And, dressed in his Kings’ jersey and short black shorts, Anže feels just as complete as Sasha does.

Anže knows it’s risky. To anyone else here, the jersey and painted-on black eye is a joke, a cute costume that shows off his thighs and accentuates his athleticism, pretty much the only thing he has going for him in the looks category. If Anže is truthful, however, he isn’t dressed for any client here but Jon, who he hasn’t seen in the 48 hours since that first night. He ignores how dangerous it is that he’s been counting.

He doesn’t care, though, because the jersey feels good against his bare skin and he’s already four beers in and doesn’t argue when Sasha leads him out onto the dance floor. Sasha’s skin is warm where Anže’s holding his hips, and Anže pulls him close, fitting his knees along Sasha’s as they rock into the music. He knows how they look together, and as Sasha grins at him, Anže knows that Sasha’s thinking the same thing.

Neither Sasha nor Anže tend to have trouble attracting clients. It took years to develop, but now they both have a reputation for discretion and loyalty that not only attracts high-profile clients, but keeps them coming back. Anže has heard the whispers in the escort community, whispers that he and Sasha must have something of their own to hide, and, although no one has guessed at their true identities, it makes Anže nervous. Not for the first time, he thinks about his brand – the physical mark of his secrets - and he glances down to make sure that both their hips are covered.

Sasha follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. He pulls Anže closer, his lips brushing against Anže’s ear. “It’s Halloween. No cops here, and even if they are, they’re not paying attention.”

Anže wants to argue. The whole point of this night is to be noticed, if not recognized. Tomorrow’s November 1st, and they have a stack of bills on the kitchen table, and they’re both banking on a decent night tonight. Even if Anže would be lying if there wasn’t one person he wanted it from.

“You’re distracted.” Sasha whispers and Anže’s stomach leaps guiltily. This is wrong. So wrong.

Forcefully, he raises his head to scan the dance floor. _M Cat 67_ attracts a particular crowd on Halloween, including a number of closeted Hollywood elites who, on normal days, are too recognizable even for the underground clubs. Anže stops on a bare-chested Gladiator in dark Aviators who looks just desperate enough, and he nudges at Sasha’s chin, motioning towards that corner of the dance floor.

Sasha’s eyes go dark and he pulls back from Anže before pausing. “You sure you don’t want?”

“Nah.” Anže shakes his head. “He looks more your type.”

Sasha pauses for a moment, eyeing Anže as if he knows that there’s more to it and Anže holds his breath for a moment, but then Sasha grins and pushes his way through the dance floor. Anže watches Sasha work, worming his way into the Gladiator’s space, until he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Who’s that?” Jon motions to Sasha and the Gladiator.

“Roommate.” There’s something about the way Jon is standing in front of him, dressed in board shorts and a Bauer shirt and looking painfully normal, arms crossed protectively across his chest that makes it near-impossible for Anže to lie. He regrets it immediately.

“Roommate?” As if roommate might mean something else.

Anže bites his lip and nods. “Yeah.” Jon is here, in front of him, finally, and Anže doesn’t know what to do with how that makes him feel.

Jon watches Sasha for another couple of moments before he tears his eyes away, his gaze lighting on Anže. His cheeks go pink and he visibly swallows. “Nice jersey.”

It’s the perfect thing for Jon to have said and, suddenly, Anže remembers what this is between them. He gives Jon a small smile and steps forward to run a finger up Jon’s chest. “Yeah?”

Jon drops his eyes to Anže’s finger, as if he finds it hard to think when Anže’s touching him. It makes Anže feel warm and powerful and Anže pushes the feelings away before he can be terrified enough to run. He presses his palm flat against Jon’s chest and can feel it when Jon takes a deep breath. “What are you supposed to be?” He prompts.

“Hockey player?” He suggests, but then he glances around them and his shoulders slump as he gives Anže a self-deprecating grin. “I forgot.”

“About Halloween?”

“Yeah.”

Jon looks so chastised about it that Anže laughs, deep and real, and, after a moment, Jon chuckles, his chest moving under Anže’s hands and Anže is reminded of what Jon looks like naked. He swallows, hard, and Jon’s eyes move to his throat before trailing lower.

“You, um-” Jon runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, you look really good in that jersey. Like you belong in it.” He pauses for a moment, as if he wants to say more, but it’s too perfect, too close to the things Anže’s always wanted, and Anže leans forward to kiss him. 

It takes Jon a moment, but then his fingers are bunching the fabric at Anže’s hips, pulling their bodies flush together and Anže can feel Jon already half-hard against his thigh. Anže drops his hand between them, pressing his palm lightly between Jon’s legs, the movement hidden by their bodies. Jon groans, his whole body shaking as he pulls his lips away to pant into Anže’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Jon whispers.

Anže shivers, himself, and pulls his hand away to press against Jon’s lower back. “Sorry. Too forward?”

Jon chuckles, his breath warm and short against Anže’s neck. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Jon’s body is shaking a little under his hands, and Anže presses against his back, a little bit amazed that, despite Jon’s obvious discomfort, he is here. Again. With Anže. Anže turns his head to press a kiss to Jon’s ear, before capturing his earlobe between his teeth gently to remind Jon of his arousal. Jon groans again, pulling back to grab Anže’s hand.

“Can we get out of here?”

Anže nods, glancing behind him to find Sasha’s arms around the Gladiator but his eyes on Anže. Sasha grins and Anže raises an eyebrow, but allows Jon to pull him through the crowd and into his car for the second time in two nights.

Jon seems a little less nervous as he buckles his seatbelt and pulls out onto the busy holiday streets. “You can play whatever on the radio.”

Anže leans forward to flip through the presets, settling on Pink’s _Raise Your Glass_. It was playing in the club as they left, and Anže’s knees automatically twitch to the beat. Jon glances at him, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

Anže stops humming and glances over, worried that Jon is going to decide that he can’t do this and leave Anže on the side of the road in not much more than a hockey jersey, a ridiculous, insecure fear that he’s never had before. He swallows. “What for?”

Jon doesn’t look away from the road as he turns onto the highway. “I don’t like to dance.” He settles into the middle lane and frowns again, glancing at Anže’s knees. He amends his statement. “I can’t dance.”

Anže releases the breath he was holding. “It’s just a means to an end. For me.”

Jon shrugs, his shoulders stiff and his knuckles white against the steering wheel. “You like it. It’s Halloween and I dragged you away.”

Anže laughs. “My only goal was to get your attention. Worked, didn’t it?” It’s an admission that, again, he shouldn’t be making, but the relief that Jon isn’t backing out is so strong that he reaches over to rest a hand on Jon’s thigh.

Jon’s body loosens and he smiles as he pulls up in front of the Hilton. Anže squeezes his knee quickly, then gets out and follows Jon straight to the elevator bays. He raises an eyebrow at Jon, who flushes again and pulls a key out of his wallet. “I’m prepared this time.”

Anže shakes his head. Jon always keeps him off balance, teetering between jittery and unsure and a level of preparedness and foresight that Anže isn’t used to in his clients. It makes the whole arrangement feel raw and real in a way that sex hasn’t felt since that first hand-job Anže had exchanged at age twelve.

Jon opens the door, stopping just inside, and Anže has to squeeze in to let the door close behind them before he wraps an arm around Jon’s waist and kisses his shoulder. Anže slips his hand under Jon’s shirt and rests it flat against his stomach.

Jon shivers, dislodging Anže’s hand as he turns to press Anže hard against the door. Jon’s kiss is hungry, desperate, his hands flexing against the Kings logo on Anže’s chest. Anže kisses back, letting the door take his weight as he wraps his right calf around Jon’s thigh. Jon’s skin is warm and soft, the muscles in his legs reminding Anže that Jon, too, is an athlete and Anže doesn’t have to be careful or gentle.

Anže feels his own arousal growing and he pulls back, fighting for breaths and sagging against the door. He needs to get himself under a little bit of control. Fast. “I’m-” He takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna take a shower. Get this off,” he motions to the black-eye still painted on his face.

Jon looks disappointed, but he nods and steps back. Anže can’t handle that look on Jon’s face, so he kisses him quickly as he moves past and into the bathroom. The door is halfway closed before he remembers to call out, “money on the table.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Jon seems flustered, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Can you, um, can you still be wearing the jersey? When you’re done?”

Anže grins. “Sure.” He closes the door behind him and leans against the sink to take a deep breath. This is part of his routine, mainly meant to let him clean off the sweat and grime of the street and, for many clients, to prepare himself when his client is more interested in getting off quickly than in foreplay. With Jon, however, he needs the moment. He feels anxious and aroused and Jon makes it way too easy to forget that this isn’t about him, it’s about Jon and Jon’s pleasure at the expense of his own.

Taking a deep breath, he strips and starts the water. His dick bobs against his stomach and, as he waits for the water to warm, he wraps his hand around it and pulls, hard. He doesn’t have a lot of time, but he needs to take the edge off. He steps under the spray, using the warm water to slick his way. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back, and images of two nights ago flash through his head, images of Jon’s fingers pressing into Anže’s legs as he throws his head back, face open with awe and ecstasy.

Anže isn’t really worried that Jon won’t be careful with him, but out of habit he reaches behind himself, pressing two fingers in and scissoring them to open himself up. As his fingers press against his prostrate, he twists his fist and he comes against the wall. 

He feels better, calmer, if still humming with an undercurrent of arousal as he cleans up. He scrubs at his eye, making sure that the make-up is completely gone, before stepping out and drying off quickly. 

He stops for a moment, looking at the jersey folded neatly next to the sink. This might be the only way he’ll ever have of fulfilling his dream of wearing it. It’s sad, disheartening for a moment, until Anže remembers that it’s Jon on the other side of the door and, well, if he can’t _play_ for the Kings, this is the best consolation prize he can think of. He slips on the jersey, deciding to forego his shorts, and opens the door.

He hadn’t realized how anxious he was that Jon might have given in to his nerves and left, but when he steps out and sees Jon, he feels a knot uncurl in his stomach. Jon is leaning back against the headboard, naked, palming his dick in slow, lazy strokes and Anže groans, his spent cock giving a little twitch of appreciation.

Anže tears his eyes away just long enough to make sure that the money is on the dresser before he turns back to Jon. “Started without me?”

“Mmm.” Jon’s hips give a little unconscious thrust into his fist.

Anže puts his knees on the bed, straddling Jon’s legs and placing his hand over Jon’s. They pump together in the same, easy motions and Jon’s eyes slip closed. His breathing is ragged as he continues. 

“You took awhile.”

Anže blushes, grateful that Jon’s eyes are closed so that he can’t see it. “Yeah. Make-up was harder than I thought.”

Jon opens his eyes, lifting his free hand to trace around Anže’s eye. “You looked good with a black-eye. Like a hockey player.”

Anže ignores the little twinge at how good that sounds and focuses on the feel of Jon’s fingers, gentle and warm on his face. “That why you wanted me to keep the jersey on?”

“Mmm hmm,” Jon nods. He pulls his hands away, leaving Anže to take over the hand-job, so that he can pull lube and condoms out of the bedside table. He squeezes the bottle onto his fingers, warming it gently before pushing one into Anže’s body.

It feels good, better than it should, and the thrum of arousal that hums through Anže’s body every time Jon is around makes him press down against Jon’s hand.

“So responsive,” Jon whispers, reverently, slipping a second finger in.

Anže doesn’t have a suitable answer for that, so he leans forward to kiss Jon, slipping his tongue in to explore Jon’s mouth. Jon groans, pulling away only to kiss and nip at Anže’s collarbone. He finds the spot right at the crook of Anže’s neck, and Anže feels himself start to harden as Jon attacks the area. Under him, Jon’s hips thrust off the bed and Anže stills his hand, pulling back and reaching for the condom.

“Ready?”

Jon nearly chokes, his face taught and focused as Anže rolls the condom onto his erection. Then Anže sits back, sinking slowly down until he is seated fully on Jon, both of them groaning at how deep Jon is.

“Jesus, Aron, what you do to me,” Jon whispers, brushing a strand of hair off of Anže’s forehead. “Move? Please.”

Anže raises himself on his knees, the muscles in his thighs flexing, and Jon’s hand instantly reaches out to touch him, feeling along those muscles as Anže sets a quick rhythm. Jon lets him do most of the work, his head thrown back against the pillow, eyes slitted and dark as he watches Anže work.

Jon’s hands move off his thighs, pushing upwards to rub across the jersey. He presses on Anže’s nipples, rubbing the fabric against them until Anže is aching and he lets out a pained little noise. Jon’s eyes open quickly, leaning up for an apologetic kiss that Anže grants him, feeling guilty and unprofessional for letting the noise out. With Jon, though, it’s hard to pay attention, to remember his training and his profession, when all he wants to do is get lost in the sensations.

Jon makes it so easy, as his hands move back down, caressing Anže’s sides, and slipping under the jersey. His fingers play in the crease of Anže’s thighs, before finally reaching his dick and wrapping it in a warm, lubed fist. Anže tries to protest, tries to tell him that this isn’t about him, but it tumbles out in Swedish and Jon kisses him to shut him up anyway.

Jon’s thumb rubs across the head and Anže arches his back, the angle shifting on his downstroke so that Jon’s dick catches his prostrate and he lets out a loud, long, guttural moan, leaking on Jon’s fist. “Fuck, Aron.” Jon looks lost, awed, as he lets go of Anže’s erection, letting it bounce against his jersey, streams of precome marring the black material. It looks hot to Anže, but it does something spectacular to Jon, as he grabs onto Anže’s hips, holding him still as he uses his hips to thrust, hard, into Anže’s body.

Anže lets him, relinquishing control to Jon’s pleasure. It’s amazing to watch Jon fall apart like this, knowing that he did this, he caused this – Jon, who is quiet and soft-spoken and nervous, to surrender to his passions, moaning and gasping and crying out.

“Fuck, Jesus, I can’t- I don’t-” Jon surges up, presses an open-mouthed kiss to Anže’s mouth as he comes, his hips arching off the bed and his entire body shuddering for long moments until he collapses back against the pillows. Anže gives him a minute, caressing his body with light, slow touches until Jon opens his eyes again, grinning.

“Can you- I mean, I want to watch you-” He motions at Anže’s dick, straining hard against his belly, and Anže nods. He lifts onto his knees so that Jon can see him, grasping his cock and it only takes a few strokes before he’s coming in long, white strings across the crest-ed logo.

Jon groans, giving one more thrust upwards, into Anže’s body, before he slips out, spent and sated and happy. He reaches a hand up, though, to run his fingers through the mess, bunching the material in his fist and swallowing dryly. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Anže feels a ping of jealousy that Jon can get off on this, because he gets to wear this jersey, for real, almost every night. But Jon’s face is so open, innocent, enthralled when he gazes at Anže that Anže can’t be angry, and he can’t pretend that sharing this with Jon wasn’t some of the hottest sex he’s ever had. 

He leans forward to kiss Jon, quickly, before pulling him into the shower for a blowjob.

***

It’s early afternoon by the time Anže wakes up. He had snuck out of the hotel room around 4 am and fallen into a cab. When he got home, he hadn’t done anything more than check in on Sasha and brush his teeth before falling into his bed and sleeping another eight hours. 

He wakes up feeling rested and much more alive. He takes his time in the shower, fingering the red marks across his chest. He won’t be able to take another client until they fade, maybe three or four days without an income beside Jon’s. In daylight, without Jon here, in front of him, around him, this all seems a lot more dangerous. 

When they’re in bed, Anže can follow his instincts without having to think too hard about what he’s allowing to happen. It’s easy, simple, and good enough that Anže would be crazy not to lose himself in it. When he’s here, however, in his own ugly teal shower, with Sasha banging around in the kitchen and his brand glaring dark and obvious on his hip, Anže can’t pretend anymore.

This is risky. Rather than feeling powerful, he feels exposed and vulnerable. Anže can’t lie to himself anymore. Without meaning to, Jon could be the end of everything but, even knowing all of this, Anže doesn’t think he can stop.

The water’s growing cold against his neck and Anže washes the rest of the conditioner out of his hair before stepping out quickly. He dresses slowly in sweatpants and a sleeveless t-shirt and makes his way into the kitchen.

Sasha glances up from his spot on the couch. He mutes the episode of _The Simpsons_ he’s watching, even though Anže is pretty sure that Sasha doesn’t understand half of it. Sasha grins at him. “Dober dan. Late night?”

Anže grunts. There’s still some coffee in the pot and he pours himself a cup before digging milk and cereal out of the refrigerator. He doesn’t say anything until he curls up on the other side of the couch, careful not to spill his overflowing bowl. “How was the Gladiator?”

Sasha makes an obscene gesture as he answers, “Hung,” and Anže chokes on a spoonful of milk as he laughs. Sasha raises an eyebrow. “How was yours?”

“Jon?” Anže cringes as he uses Jon’s name.

Sasha raises an eyebrow at him. “That his real name? He looks familiar.”

“Yeah.” Anže focuses on finishing his breakfast. When he’s done, he curls his knees under himself and hugs his hands around his coffee. He takes a deep breath. “He plays for the Kings.”

“Oh.” Sasha’s face lights up in recognition. “Oh. I’ve seen him play. Flexible, yeah?”

Anže blushes, but nods his head.

Sasha laughs. “He’s cute. Haven’t seen him around, though.”

“He’s new.”

Sasha’s smile dampens, as if he senses that this conversation is different than the conversations they tend to have the morning after. Those are usually coded, with fake names and fake jobs. Client discretion is even more important than the trust they have for each other. All these little chats usually are is a sharing of anonymous sexual exploits. 

Sasha seems to realize that this is more than that. He turns on the couch to look at Anže, speaking slowly. “You called him by his first name.”

“Didn’t mean to. Just slipped out,” Anže promises. “I just met him a couple days ago. At _M Cat_.”

“You didn’t mention it a couple days ago.”

Anže shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

Sasha runs a hand through his hair. “He plays for the _Kings_.”

“I know.” Anže looks down, picking at a seam on the edge of his sweatpants. “I didn’t seek him out. He found me.”

“I want to believe you.” Sasha shakes his head. “It’s too perfect, no?”

Anže swallows. “It’s a job. He’s a client.” Sasha is looking at him as if he doesn’t believe a word, and Anže drops his chin, giving in a little. “Best client I’ve ever had, but still a client.”

“You can’t forget.” Sasha could mean that Jon’s a client. He could mean who they are. He would mean what it was like, in Slovenia. Anže doesn’t want to think about any of it.

Sasha’s voice is gentle, his eyes soft and sympathetic. “Anže, I know you, I know how you are, but you can’t, okay?”

Anže swallows hard. “Can’t what?” Because he needs Sasha to say it, needs someone to remind him what’s at stake here.

Sasha shifts on the couch so that he’s close enough to lay a hand on Anže’s crossed arms. “You can’t fall for him.” The _because you could, because he’s perfect, because he’s everything you’ve ever wanted_ is left unspoken. Sasha squeezes Anže’s arm to let him to know that he gets it anyway.

Sasha’s soft-spoken, “Just think about it, okay? You don’t wanna end up back in Slovenia any more than I do,” does nothing but make him angry.

Anže wrenches out of his grip, pressing into the corner of the couch. “Fuck you. When have I _ever_ put us in danger?”

Sasha doesn’t move, he just rests his chin on his hands and gazes up at Anže. “When have you ever had someone like Jon before?” Sasha lowers his head. “I want to believe you, Anže, I swear.”

“Good.”

Sasha bites his lower lip. “I just- I’m not sure you’re seeing straight on this one.”

Anže’s eyes flash. He’s been holding back the anger and frustration in deference to fear for years, and it’s all bubbling over. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe,” Sasha nods in deference.

“You don’t understand.”

Sasha’s eyes grow dark, and for a moment Anže flashes to Sam, the basketball player who’s had intentions on Sasha for months. Sasha’s back straightens and he doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s harder than it was a moment ago. “I’m the only one who understands.”

Anže’s normally the one who’s careful, the one of them who worries and frets and, sometimes, he forgets that Sasha has just as much to lose here as Anže does. When they should have been running far and fast from anything Slovenian, they agreed to tie their lives together in the most dangerous of ways. It matters, to have someone, his best friend, here every day, reminding him why it’s all worth it. 

Usually it’s enough. More than. But, for the first time, Anže wishes he were free, wishes his decisions were his own to make. He set himself on this path when he was twelve years old, and he’s been careful ever since, but just this once he wants to fuck up and he wants it to be okay.

Anže crosses his arms and frowns at him, because he has nothing to counter with. Sasha stares back, and they’re at a stalemate for long moments until Sasha sighs. “Look, I’ve never seen you like this, and it’s scarring me a little bit.”

Anže deflates, his anger leaving as quickly as it came in the face of Sasha’s vulnerability. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers.

“I’m not asking you to. I just- I just want you to be careful.”

“Yeah.”

Sasha sighs, standing up and resting a hand on Anže’s shoulder. “I have a pick-up game. I’ll be back in a bit. Ràd te imam.”

Anže watches him leave, wishing that he could promise Sasha that he has nothing to worry about. But he can’t promise that. Sasha threw his best at him, and Anže still can’t convince himself that it isn’t worth all the risks. 

Translations:

Dober dan = good afternoon  
Ràd te imam = I love you 

***

**November 2010**

“Where are the rest of the guys?” Jon asks as he settles across the table from Matt, two pints in his hands. He slides one across to Matt.

Matt shrugs. “Brownie said you’ve been weird lately. Said I should deal with you.”

Jon frowns. “Weird? Brownie has no right throwing the word ‘weird’ around.”

Matt ignores him. “Quiet. Distracted. Normal goalie stuff, but he insisted that I talk to you.”

“Why you?”

“Don’t know. I’ve known you the longest? Guess it’s my cross to bare.” Matt puts a hand to his chest.

“Asshole,” Jon laughs as he flicks a napkin across the table. He’s known Matt Moulson a long time. Since Juniors. He introduced Matt to his wife, Alicia, who’s the sister of the girl who grew up next door to Jon. Jon tends to think that he deserves more respect for making that happen, but Matt’s kind of an asshole, so he doesn’t normally push it. Matt is also, possibly, his best friend outside of his teammates.

“Mmm.” Matt picks up the folded menu on the table and glances at it. “Nachos?”

Jon grabs the menu from him. “And potato wedges.”

Matt makes a face, but when the waitress comes he orders for them. Once she’s gone, he leans back in his chair, beer in hand, and stares at Jon until Jon is shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“What?”

“Brownie tells me that you haven’t been spending the night at your apartment.”

Jon swears. He supposes he should have known that Dustin would notice the absence of his car in the driveway over the last few weeks, but he’s really been too busy to think about it. “Since when do you and Dustin talk so much?”

Matt studies Jon with an inscrutable look before he tips his head back and finishes his beer. “We talk. Want another?”

They’re four or five beers and a plate of nachos and potato skins in before Matt brings it up again. “So, you’re seeing someone?”

Jon chokes on his beer. “No.”

“Alright, seeing is a strong word. You’re – what? – fucking someone?”

“I’m not-” And then Jon stops, because, well, paying a prostitute for sex almost every night has to at least count as fucking. Or something.

“Hah.” Matt points a finger at him and Jon has to adjust his eyes to see it and suddenly he feels a bit drunker than he did a minute ago. “Where’d you meet her?”

Jon struggles for the words, before settling on, “I didn’t?”

Matt frowns. “So, you fucked her but you didn’t meet her?”

“I- Fuck, Matt, just leave it alone, alright?”

“Can’t.” Matt shakes his head. “Promised your Captain I’d get to the bottom of this.”

Jon frowns, reaching for his beer and finding that his glass is empty. He motions to their waitress before turning back to Matt. “Dustin already knows this.”

“Knows what?” Matt shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “I feel a little behind here. Wanna fill me in?”

“Not really.”

“Jon-” 

Their waitress arrives with another round and Jon wraps his hands around his beer but doesn’t take another sip. He drops his voice. “Okay, fine, there is. There’s someone. Sort of.”

Matt grins, leaning back so that his chair is resting precariously on two legs. “I knew it. Who is she?”

“She’s not-” Jon swallows, closing his eyes for a moment, before plunging ahead. “She’s not a, well, a she.”

“What?” Matt looks confused for a moment, before the chair comes crashing down on all four legs. “What are you telling me?”

Jon shrugs. “His name’s Aron.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but I just never knew the right time and-”

Matt looks wildly around as if nhl.com reporters might be sipping gin and tonics at the bar. “And you decided that this is the right time?” He hisses.

Jon frowns. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. “I’m sorry. I thought-” He shakes his head. “We’ve known each other so long. We’ve shared a room. I assumed you had already guessed.”

Matt pauses for a moment before he takes a deep breath and leans as far across the table as he can. “Jesus, Jonny, I can’t lie to you. I- I’ve had suspicions, but- You should never have told me.”

Jon can feel himself shutting down. Dustin’s the only other person that Jon’s ever come out to, and Dustin had just grinned and clapped him on the back and told him that it was about time. This - telling Matt after ten years of friendship - this was supposed to be good, easy, a release of years of tension, but Matt’s staring at him with regret and hurt and something else that Jon can’t place. This is none of those things and Jon just wants to take it all back. “Forget it. It’s nothing. Just- just pretend I never mentioned it.”

Matt straightens up and pushes Jon’s untouched beer towards him. “That’s a good idea.”

Jon looks at it for a moment, then their waitress is there, asking if they need anything else and Jon doesn't think before he says, “Two tequila shots.”

“I don’t want a shot.” Matt’s voice is soft, full of pity, and it makes Jon furious.

“Good. They’re not for you.” Their waitress is back and he accepts the shots, downing them in quick succession before she has a chance to hand him the lime slices. She raises an eyebrow and Jon just smiles at her. “Long day.”

She shrugs at him, dropping the lime slices onto the table with their bill and walks away. Jon turns back to Matt, who sighs, running a hand through his hair before pressing his elbows to the table and leaning forward again. “Look, Jonny,” his says, his voice low and even and hard. “You know I don’t care, alright? If you weren’t a hockey player, I’d say fuck it, good for you, go enjoy yourself.”

“I am a hockey player.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jon’s voice is rising and he stops himself at Matt’s sharp look, taking a deep breath, his lungs burning from the tequila. “Something, fuck, anything.”

Matt raises an eyebrow. “Fine. You want my advice?”

Jon’s having a hard time focusing on Matt, but he’s already half-way in this, so he leans forward and hisses, “Yeah, jackass. I don’t know why the fuck, but I really do.”

“My advice,” Matt says slowly, “is to forget about this. Forget about this Aron guy. Find yourself a nice girl. Bring her to Christmas parties and company picnics. Hell, have a kid or two and buy a house in the suburbs and have Cribs do a story on how nice and simple and normal your perfect fucking life is.”

“Jesus, Matt,” Jon’s finding it hard to swallow and he knows his voice sounds strangled. “You don’t know me at all.”

Jon’s hands are gripping the edge of the table and Matt reaches out to touch one. “I don’t want to be the one telling you this, but, I care about you. You introduced me to my wife and now I’m repaying the favor.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, damn it, you have to listen to me. You’ve gone soft in LA, man. You’ve forgotten what it’s like, playing back East. The press follows you to the goddamn grocery store. If they caught wind of this- If anyone ever finds out-” Matt swallows audibly. “The league isn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever, hell, I don’t know but- If you, now- Fuck, Jon, you’d be finished.”

“They can’t. I have a contract.”

Matt shakes his head. “They can’t force you out. But they can make you miserable ‘til it’s your decision. And then that’s what they’ll tell the press: it was your choice, you didn’t want to mess up the mood in the locker room. For the good of the team, they’ll say.” Jon stares at him and Matt sighs, his voice gentling. “I’m sorry. I know you don't want to believe it, but I saw it happen.”

Jon licks his dry lips. “When?”

“In Juniors. His name was Rob. He was good. Fast. Could shoot the puck. One day his roommate came home and Rob was in bed with another guy and, well, Rob didn’t finish out the year.”

“And?”

Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. I heard a while back that he was working at Tim Horton’s, living with his parents.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Matt pats his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Jon pulls his hand away and pushes back from the table, standing. “Yeah, of course. I get it. Thanks for, you know.” He throws a couple of $20s onto the table before he stumbles out onto the sidewalk. It’s November and it’s getting chilly, but he doesn’t really feel it past the beer and the tequila and the numbness. He knows he should go home and sleep it off or maybe talk to Dustin, but there’s adrenaline and alcohol rushing through his system so he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Meet me at the hotel.” He doesn’t give Anže the chance to respond before he’s ending the call and falling into a cab. 

By the time Anže arrives, Jon is already naked, lying against the headboard with his dick in his hand. Anže whistles as he closes the door quickly behind him. “Jebanje, you-”

Jon twists his fist on the upstroke and moans, pressing his feet into the bed. “Get over here.”

Anže chuckles, motioning towards the bathroom. “I’m just gonna-”

“No,” Jon whines, his cheeks already flushed, his breathing harsh against his soar throat. “The money’s already on the table.”

“Jesus.” Anže drops his bag and kneels on the bed next to Jon. “Are you okay?” He presses his palm to Jon’s cheek, feeling for a fever.

“I’m good. Great.” He turns his head, catching Anže’s ring finger in his mouth and sucking. Anže groans and Jon lets go, grinning. “A little drunk, maybe,” he admits. “And horny,” he punctuates with a flick of his wrist.

Anže laughs, reaching down to place his hand on top of Jon’s, squeezing around his dick. Anže’s hand is real and strong, and Jon focuses on it, thrusting up into it and, when Anže makes to move away, Jon holds him there. “No, just like this. This is good.”

Anže gives him a questioning look, but then Jon thrusts his hips into Anže’s fist and Anže doesn’t argue. He tightens his grip, using the fast pace with the little twist at the end that he knows Jon likes. It doesn’t take long, before Jon’s whole body arches and he cries out, coming in long, hard bursts across Anže’s fist.

Jon’s mind still feels fuzzy, the familiar room vague and undefined, but next to him, Anže is there and solid. Jon reaches for him, pulling Anže to rest between his open thighs and kisses him desperately. Anže’s barely hard against his stomach, but Jon reaches down to undo his fly and pull his dick from his jeans. He tightens his fist, grinning against Anže’s lips as Anže hardens in his fingers.

Anže pulls back, his breath coming in short, hard breaths and Jon grins harder. “You don’t have to,” he says, softly and out of breath, just as he does every time.

Jon pulls him down. “I want to.”

Jon tightens his fist and he knows that it’s too fast and too hard and just on the edge of painful, but Anže’s kissing him and bucking into his fist and Jon can’t stop. He wants Anže to feel good, to feel Jon and remember him. Even when Anže moans and comes, biting down on the edge of Jon’s lip, he doesn’t stop until Anže reaches down to pull his hand away.

“Sorry,” Jon pants. “I’m sorry, I just- God, I just wanted you.”

Anže bends down for a quick kiss. Jon’s lip stings and Anže pulls back sheepishly. “Sorry. About that.”

Jon’s pokes at the spot with his tongue, but the little bit of pain feels good. “It’s fine.” He glances down their bodies. Anže’s holding himself up, over Jon’s body, and he’s dressed accept for his dick sticking out of the v of his opened pants. “Sorry for mauling you.” 

Anže chuckles, lifting himself off and laying on his back next to Jon. “I’m good.”

They lie like that, their breathing evening out, until Jon falls asleep.

***

Over the next few weeks, Anže feels them slipping out of the routine that they’d so precariously established. Jon seems wired and anxious, and there are a number of times when Anže catches Jon staring at him, teeth worrying at his lower lip, as if he wants to ask something. Each time this happens, Anže slides to his knees and slips Jon’s dick into his mouth, ‘cause Anže’s pretty sure that he doesn't want to answer whatever it is that Jon wants to ask.

It comes to a head a few days after Thanksgiving. Between the holiday and the fact that the Blackhawks are in town for a game a few days later, Anže doesn’t expect to hear from Jon for a couple of days. In a valiant attempt to slip back into his normal routine, Anže tells Sasha to dress and they head to _M Cat 67_ for the first time since Halloween.

It almost feels normal as Anže leans back against the bar, his shoulder brushing with Sasha’s, a glass of tequila in his left hand. They’re attracting looks, just like they always had, before hockey and Jon, and suddenly Anže is overwhelmed by the turn his life has taken over the past few weeks. It makes him itchy and anxious, and he searches desperately through the dance floor, eyes lighting on a tall, blond, fit man who Anže has never seen here before.

He elbows Sasha. “There.” He points to the man, and Sasha’s eyebrow rises.

“Leo?”

Anže frowns. “Huh?”

“I had him a couple weeks ago. He was good.” Sasha blushes and Anže grins.

“Good, huh?”

“Very.”

“You want him tonight?”

Sasha pauses long enough to finish his glass and eye the blond. “Nah.”

Anže glances sideways, trying to determine rather Sasha’s telling him the truth. “You sure?”

Sasha nods to the other side of the room, where one of his higher-paying regulars is watching them over his drink. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” Anže grasps his shoulder briefly before moving onto the floor. The blond is hot and ready, his eyes lighting up when Anže tells him that he’s a friend of Sasha’s.

“Leo,” he offers, hands grasping at Anže’s hips. He turns them so that he’s pressed against Anže’s back, his erection already straining against Anže’s ass, and his hands slipping just under the waistband of Anže’s pants. Anže flexes his thighs, pressing back against Leo and following his lead as the music gets deeper. 

Leo breathes against his ear as he pushes forward to ask. “You as good as your friend?”

Anže chuckles, pressing his hips back and rubbing against Leo’s dick. “You tell me.”

He slips a bundle of bills into Anže’s pocket, his fingers brushing against Anže’s dick as he does. Anže turns around, straightening his legs and pulling Leo into a deep, wet kiss.

Leo’s panting, pupils blown, when Anže pulls back. He reaches for Leo’s hand and pulls him across the dance floor and up against the first open space he finds in the back room. The lights are low and Anže has to fumble to find Leo’s belt buckle as he sinks to his knees. Leo’s pants fall to his ankles and he’s not wearing anything underneath. Anže wastes no time in slipping the condom on and leaning forward to grasp Leo’s erection in his fist and lick a strip from base to hip.

Leo groans, his head hitting the wall with a thump and his moans joining the others who are in this room for the same reason. It feels good, primal, simple. The music filters in from the main room, the beat humming through the floor and Anže’s knees so that, when Anže takes Leo between his lips and sucks, it’s to the timing of Ke$ha’s newest hit.

Leo’s hands are on his head, his fingers pulling at his hair. His hips are thrusting and Anže loosens his throat to take Leo in and he has to press a hand on Leo’s hip to hold him up.

“Fuck, Aron, that’s- fuck.” He gasps. “As good as advertised.” He moves a hand from Anže’s hair to his jaw, holding him still and thrusting his hips forward. Anže breathes through his nose and doesn't stop him. 

Anže can tell that Leo is close right before Leo forces his hips back against the wall. He pulls on Anže’s hair until Anže is standing in front of him. “Fuck,” Leo murmurs, pushing Anže around and palming his dick. Anže loosens his belt, pushing his pants and boxers to his knees and holds his legs as far apart as his jeans will let him.

Leo pushes forward without warning, and Anže bites his lip not to gasp, his hands pressing against the wall to hold himself steady. “Jesus, how are you so tight?” Leo groans in wonder, digging fingers into Anže’s shoulder as he rolls his hips before pulling out and thrusting in, hard.

It’s dirty and public and a little painful because Anže’s a little out of practice. It’s also familiar and comforting and Anže feels more in control than he has in weeks. He tightens his muscles as Leo thrusts forward, and Leo falls against Anže’s back, grunting, his hips moving erratically as he comes into the condom.

Leo pulls out without another word and Anže pulls up his pants, checking his pockets to make sure that the money is still there. He has to walk a little carefully back out onto the dance floor, his thighs and ass already starting to ache. He catches Sasha’s eye and grins, motioning towards the door to let him know that Anže’s gotten what he came for and is heading home. Sasha raises an eyebrow, but he looks happy, as if he knows how much Anže needed the normality of this, too, and he nods Anže away.

He’s half-way home, thinking about heading to the rink - another part of his life that he’s been neglecting lately - when he gets a text from Jon. He knows he should ignore it, pretend he’s with someone else, busy, unavailable, but he’s missed Jon over the last couple of days. Pathetically. He pauses for only a moment before he makes a u-turn and heads back towards the Hilton.

He’s a common enough figure by now that no one stops him in the lobby. When he gets to the room that he’s now thinking of as _their_ room, the door is slightly open and he slips in, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

Jon is leaning against the long window, gazing out at the city, and he doesn’t turn around when Anže enters. Anže’s always thought of Jon as strong, tall and firm and sexy as hell, but, shadowed against the window, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his pockets, he looks small and vulnerable and that thing that’s been threatening Anže for weeks clenches tightly in his stomach.

“Jon?” He asks, quietly, not wanting to break the silence but needing to do something, anything, before he gives himself away.

Jon turns his head as if he hadn’t realized that Anže had entered, and maybe he hadn’t. His eyes look far away, cheeks flushed the way they always are after he’s had a few beers, but he gives a shy little smile when he catches sight of Anže. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Anže parrots stupidly. He cringes and forces his feet to move, dropping his bag in the entryway and moving to mirror John on the other side of the window.

“Sorry I texted so late.”

“It’s okay.” Anže follows Jon’s gaze out the window and the city really does look beautiful from up here, all the bright lights and tall buildings and the promise that had brought Anže here all the way from Slovenia. He sighs. “I was out.”

Jon’s posture tightens. “Out?”

Anže catches his eye. This is something they never talk about, and Jon’s not so naïve as to think that he’s been Anže’s only client over the past few months, but Anže also knows that Jon never lets himself think about it like that. Anže doesn’t look away from Jon’s blazing gaze. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes dull a little but his jaw is still clenched and he looks away again, digging his hands further into his pockets. 

“I’m-” _sorry_ , Anže wants to say, but he bites it back. He’s sorry for so many things. He’s sorry that he can’t tell Jon that he hadn’t wanted it, can’t assure him that it wasn’t good or promise him that he won’t do it again. He’s already told Jon so many lies, and he can’t bear to tell any more. He risks tracing Jon’s profile with his eyes. He’s beautiful. Anže swallows.

Jon glances at him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business. I just- Fuck.” Jon runs a hand through his hair and Anže cringes as his stomach flips. It shouldn’t make him happy that Jon _wants_ it to be his business. Because it’s not, and it can’t ever be.

“I’m an escort, Jon,” Anže tells him gently. Jon’s eyes immediately jump to the envelope of money already sitting on the dresser and Anže goes over to it, shoving it into his duffle because he doesn’t like the reminder of it any more than Jon does. 

When he returns to the window, Jon’s not looking at him again and his voice is small when he starts speaking. “The Blackhawks are in town. Kaner organized a post-Thanksgiving picnic at Brownie’s house. There were wives and kids and all I could think about was that this isn’t my life. It won’t ever be. And that’s sad, you know?”

Anže nods, even though he has no idea. That was never a possibility for him. He has few memories of what his home life was like before he was branded, and the life of a high-end escort is certainly anything but domestic. He’s never thought about a future with kids and a husband and a yard. He doesn’t know what he’d do with those things.

Jon laughs a little, self-deprecating and misreading Anže’s frown. “I know. Ridiculous, right? I play in the NHL. I have everything I’ve ever wanted.” Jon sighs, and it sounds so sad that Anže wraps his arms around his chest to keep in the ache.

“Duncs and Seabs were there and they’re such great guys.” Jon pauses, as if he’s waiting for Anže to agree with him. Anže has no idea who Duncs and Seabs are or if they’re good guys, but he trusts Jon’s judge of character, so he just nods. “They asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I didn’t know how to answer that. I mean- Fuck. What are we doing here?”

Jon’s staring at him, eyes beautiful and warm and wet and all the dullness is gone. Anže swallows. “I don’t know.” Jon’s his client, but he’s not like any client Anže’s ever had. His stomach flips every time Jon hires him, and he’s taken to moping at home every night he doesn't hear from him. Anže cares about Jon, there’s no use in denying it any longer. The truth is that Jon is the longest relationship Anže has ever had. Which is sad, and kinda pathetic, and possibly terrifying.

“Glad I’m not the only one.” Jon laughs, high in his throat, and it comes out a little weak and brittle. “I’m not, right? Not the only one who’s feeling lost here?”

Anže should deny it. He needs to. 

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.” Jon sighs, pulling his hand out of his pocket and running it through his hair again. Anže tamps down the urge to straighten it with his fingers. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Jon makes a deep, frustrated noise and rests his forehead on the cool glass of the window. “Not that it matters. We can’t ever have this.”

“No. We can’t.” Anže agrees. “I’m sorry.” There’s nothing else to say.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. Or, not just your fault. I can’t either. Ever.”

Anže frowns. “What?”

Jon motions to his chest and Anže notices that he’s wearing a Kings t-shirt, his number 32 on the back. “I play in the NHL. Can’t be gay and play hockey.”

Jon sounds like he’s quoting something, or someone, and Anže’s fingers clench. Jon sounds so defeated and it feels like a little piece of Anže’s dream is lost, too. Not like he ever thought that he’d make it to the NHL, and he’s never been so blinded by the American Dream to think that things would be different here than in Slovenia. But, it’s disappointing anyway. “I didn’t know that.”

Jon shrugs. “Doesn't matter.” He takes his other hand out of his pocket and reaches out, wrapping it around Anže’s hand and pulling him close. Anže goes, folding himself into Jon’s arms, wanting to give him any comfort he can, and taking his own from the embrace. He feels Jon’s lips, gentle and sweet pressed to the sensitive spot behind his ear. “This is what we have.”

It’s such a simple statement, and Anže aches all the way to his toes. What they have isn’t good and it doesn’t make sense, but it’s theirs, and that has to be enough. Jon’s hands caress down his back and Anže sighs into the embrace, pressing further into Jon’s chest, and then Jon’s hands grasp his ass and even through his jeans it smarts and Anže winces without thinking.

Jon drops his hands as if he was burned and he tries to step back, but Anže won’t let him. “Don’t.”

“I-” Jon struggles with words, and Anže pulls at his arms, wanting him to relax again, and, finally, Jon loosens, resting his forehead against Anže’s shoulder. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” Jon’s voice is broken, and his back heaves under Anže’s hands. “What was his name?”

“I-” Anže swallows. This is breaking more protocols than Anže can count, but if this is what Jon needs, Anže can’t not give it to him. “Leo.”

Jon’s hands move back to Anže’s ass, gentler this time, caressing and massaging. “Leo.” The name sounds sour on his tongue, and Anže doesn’t ever want to hear Jon say it again. He turns his head to kiss Jon and it’s so much more than it’s ever been before. Jon’s tongue is hot and wet and he plunders Anže’s mouth as if he’s trying to lick away every last taste of Leo. “I need you to forget him,” he whispers against Anže’s lips and Anže tries to smile.

“Leo who?”

Jon lets out a feral growl, pulling Anže against him so that they’re pressed together from shoulders to hips to knees. Jon’s hard, pressed against Anže’s thigh, and Anže groans, kissing Jon and moaning into it as he feels his own arousal pooling in his dick. 

“Fuck, Aron,” Jon whispers and it’s jarring. Anže had almost forgotten that he’s on a job, but hearing that name roll so gently off Jon’s lips, it fills Anže with rage at their situation. He shouldn’t, he can’t, it’s dangerous and stupid and the absolute last thing he should ever do, but if they can’t have anything else, they can at least have this.

“Anže,” he whispers.

“What?”

“My name.” Anže swallows. “Anže. My real name.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes go wide, and Anže can almost see him working through it in his mind. And then Jon smiles, “Anže,” he whispers, trying it out, and it sounds so beautiful coming from him that Anže’s stomach clenches.

“Yeah.”

“It’s perfect.” Jon leans forward to whisper in his ear. “I never really believed that your name was Aron. It doesn’t fit.”

Anže blushes. “Don’t, um- I shouldn’t have-”

Jon nods, seeming to understand what a gift this knowledge is, and his eyes are shining as he pulls Anže in again. “Can I?” His fingers are at the button of Anže’s jeans and Anže nods, pushing himself into Jon’s hands.

“Please.”

“You’re not too sore? After-?” He can’t finish the sentence, but Anže shakes his head, shimmying his hips and lifting his feet one at a time so that Jon can peel his jeans off his legs. He pulls his own shirt off and takes a step back, standing, naked, in front of Jon.

Jon gazes at him, caressing his body with his eyes, and even though Anže’s naked in front of clients all the time, his whole body blushes. Jon shakes his head, amazement in his voice. “I don’t understand this.”

Anže doesn’t know how to answer that in any way that he can, and he’s sick of talking. His dick is straining against his belly, already leaking, and he can see that Jon is hard and aching in his own jeans. Anže doesn’t look away from Jon’s eyes as he grabs his own dick and starts pumping slowly. “Come here,” he breathes, his cheeks still flushed and his eyes dark with lust.

Anže sees Jon’s dick twitch and Jon hesitates for only a moment before he gets with the program and steps forward. Anže grins. Sex is something he understands. He knows how to make Jon feel good, how to make him forget all about what came before, and he can only hope that he can forget how different and monumental and absolutely terrifying this night feels.

***

**December 2010**

Christmas is an important holiday in Slovenia and, even though Anže hasn’t been back to his country in well over ten years, he and Sasha try to celebrate as traditionally as they can. Anže sees two clients on the 23rd in preparation for taking off the next two days, so he wakes late on Christmas Eve to the smell of incense and almonds and pork. It smells like home and Anže has a brief, ridiculous desire to share his home with Jon before he pushes the thought away and pulls on a pair of sweatpants without bothering to shower.

In the kitchen, Sasha’s elbow-deep in batter, dressed in cut-off shorts and an apron that says “Kiss the Swede” in pale pink lettering with ruffles along the hem. Anže grins, wrapping an arm around him from behind and pressing a quick, distracting kiss to Sasha’s cheek as he reaches around him to stick a finger into the bowl of batter.

Sasha turns enough to swat at Anže’s bicep with a wooden spoon, but when Anže holds out the battered finger as a peace offering, Sasha sucks it into his mouth, loud and wet and rude. Anže chuckles as he takes another bit of batter to taste, himself, before hopping up on the counter across from Sasha.

“Mmm, tastes like home.” 

Sasha’s face falls for a moment, but then he straightens and forces a small smile. “Had to find a recipe on-line. It’s not Mati’s, but-.”

“It’s perfect,” Anže promises. “She’d be proud of you.”

“What? That I can do anything other than play video games?” Sasha tries to laugh at his joke, but Anže swallows. He knows what it’s like to be ripped from his family at a young age, their faces sad and embarrassed and disappointed as he was dragged away, his brand bright and disgraceful on his hip, a physical mark of how he has hurt his parents and let his grandparents down. Anže tries not to remember that day, those faces, but sometimes it’s hard to forget. 

Around Christmas, it’s harder. 

Anže clears his throat and kicks his heels against the cabinets. “I was thinking we could go to mass tonight at the Church on Temple.” Anže knows that he and Sasha can attend unnoticed. He checked it out a few days ago just to make sure. 

Sasha nods, grinning at Anže before turning back to check on the oven. “Good. I think I have some confessions to make.”

“Yeah,” Anže agrees. _Me too_ , he thinks, more than he can ever tell Sasha.

Sasha still doesn’t know how far things have progressed with Jon. For the past few weeks, Anže’s been caught somewhere between joyous happiness and crippling fear. In some ways, Jon’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. They have standing date-like-things almost every night Jon is in town and Anže hasn’t had more than an additional client or two a week. He’s been able to stop seeing the more violent ones all together. 

Sasha must know that _something_ is going on. As he’s sitting here, in their kitchen, shirtless, Anže knows that the absence of bruises and scratches must be conspicuous. 

Anže also knows that Sasha hasn’t missed how anxious and jumpy he has been. Because, in so many more ways that Anže doesn’t want to think about, Jon is the worst thing to ever happen to him. Anže hopes that it’s stupid, knows in his toes that he can trust Jon, but he’s also seen it happen too many times not to worry that Jon may let his real name slip to the wrong person. Any night that he’s not actually with Jon, Anže sleeps with nightmares of he - or, on the worst nights, Sasha - getting tracked down and forcibly deported.

Despite all the evidence, Sasha has only asked him once. It was almost a week ago, halfway through Jon’s mid-December ten-day road trip. The forced separation had been a shock to Anže, and he had spent the whole ten days feeling nervous and antsy and frustrated at how quickly he had allowed Jon in. In an effort to forget about it all, Anže had taken on a number of old clients.

On the sixth non-Jon client in six days, Anže had left a seedy downtown-LA hotel still half-hard and uncomfortable. The streets had been dark, a power outage keeping lights and taxis off the few blocks around the hotel. Anže was edgy and distracted when he heard footsteps behind him and when he glanced back he saw the cop, dressed in his best blues, hat pulled low over his eyes and nightstick clanging against his thigh. In that moment, Anže had truly believed that it was over, that this treacherous game he’d been playing had finally toppled down beneath him.

The cop hadn’t stopped however, hadn’t even looked in Anže’s direction as Anže ducked into an alley and waited a full half-an-hour before running to the nearest lighted street and hailing a taxi. He was still shaky when he had gotten home, smelling of sweat and sex and fear as he crawled into Sasha’s bed and pulled the quilts up to their chins. 

Sasha had held him, stripping him of his clammy t-shirt and warming his chilled skin, whispering soft, encouraging words in Slovenian until Anže’s teeth had stopped rattling, and then he’d asked, in the only way he knew how, “Anže?” his name low and spoken in such a perfect Slovenian accent that Anže’s chest had ached.

Anže hadn’t been able to answer, because there was nothing he could possibly say to make Sasha understand, so he had just shaken his head, long hair brushing against Sasha’s neck and Sasha had sighed, tightening his fingers on Anže’s lower back, whispering into the top of his head. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

Anže had feigned sleep that quickly became actual sleep, and Sasha hasn’t brought it up again since. There’s a part of Anže that’s worried that Sasha is going to corner him here, in the middle of a crowd and Catholic Latin mass, when Anže has no where to run. But he doesn’t. He just closes his palms together in prayer and then, when the carols begin, he takes Anže’s hand and grins as they both sing along.

When mass is over, they bundle into light jackets and hats and walk the two miles home. There’s no snow in LA in December, so unlike the Christmases of their childhood, but there are Christmas lights on every building, ceramic Santa Clauses on the street corners, and they pass a life-sized crèche or two. It feels like Christmas, and Anže walks close to Sasha, their shoulders brushing, as they continue to sing carols and wave to the many other Christmas-night pedestrians.

When they get home, Anže pulls the Holy Water out of the fridge. If they were in Slovenia, the water would have been blessed by their family minister, but this is simply tap water that he and Sasha had blessed that afternoon and put in the fridge to chill. It’s not perfect, but Anže’s isn’t sure that he believes in any sort of God any more anyway, and it’s done more for tradition’s sake than for anything else. So, they go from room to room, flicking the Holy Water and saying the traditional prayers, and the act itself makes Anže feel warm.

When they’ve hit every room in the house, they return to the kitchen and Anže opens a bottle of wine while Sasha cuts the potica into thick slices. Anže turns on a CD of carols, and they settle into the couch, looking at their own small, replica nativity scene on the mantel. The potica is good and heavy and the wine strong, and Anže feels his eyes starting to close.

Sasha leans into him, whispering “Vesele Bozicne” as he closes his eyes.

Anže thinks about getting up and going to his room, to his own bed and his phone that’s still sitting on the bedside table from this morning, but Anže knows that he can’t text Jon, not today and not feeling as warm and unguarded as he is. So, instead, he kisses the top of Sasha’s head, repeating the greeting, “Vesele Bozicne,” and lets himself drift to sleep in the living room. 

Translations:

Mati = mother (often, Grandmothers are referred to as ‘Mati’)  
Potica = traditional Christmas loaf, traditionally with nut filling  
Vesele Bozicne = traditional Slovenian Christmas greeting

***

The week between Christmas and New Years is a raucous affair in the Brown household. Nicole gives the kids a week to play with their toys downstairs before she makes them clean up, which means that both the living room and dining room are littered with lego castles and cardboard bricks and Thomas the Tank Engine railroad tracks. Jon almost breaks his leg on the morning of the 26th, and, fearing Coach’s wrath, he makes sure to drink a full cup of coffee before venturing into the house over the next few days.

Jon’s been trying to distract himself by volunteering to do errands for Nicole and babysitting the kids. The fifth time through _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ in two days, however, is doing nothing to keep Jon’s mind away from Anže. The Kings’ ten-day road trip had been a more hellish experience than Jon had expected, and he had stopped himself on an almost daily basis from texting Anže something stupid like _i miss u_ or _go see the tourist, ud like it_. But texting while Jon is away is a line they haven’t crossed. Texting about anything but scheduling hook-ups, actually, is a line they haven’t crossed. 

Jon knows he’s being stupid. Anže is a hooker, Jon’s hooker, but also so many others’ no matter how hard Jon tries to never think about that. Anže seems to have no desire to quit his job and move into the bedroom above Dustin’s garage, and Jon has just enough dignity left not to ask him to. He had thought that it was enough to have Anže acknowledge that there was something between them, enough to know that Anže at least felt the same way and wished, too, that things could be different.

It’s not enough. 

Jon feels guilty, because he’s obviously pushed Anže farther than he ever wanted to be pushed, but it’s still not enough. Not even close. Jon wants Anže in his bed, in his life, on the ice with him. And Jon feels guilty that this whole thing started because Jon wanted to see Anže play, wanted to tell him how good he is and beg him to give the Kings a chance. Somehow, along the way, that’s all been lost to lust and something else he refuses to examine, and what started out as a fullproof plan has gotten wildly out of control.

Jon had promised himself, after their heartfelt conversation a few weeks ago, that he’d tell Anže about the hockey part. But, then they had the road trip, and when they got back it was days before Christmas and he’s only seen Anže a couple of times since then, mostly to have frustratingly perfect sex with almost no talking.

Jon feels anxious, twitchy, and it wouldn’t even be that big of a deal if Dustin hadn’t cornered him on the plane last night and not so subtlety blamed him for their 6-3 loss to Phoenix. He had told Jon that he’s been distracted, unfocused, and that he’s hurting the team. Jon couldn’t deny any of it. He had just sat there, letting Dustin play Captain and, when he was done, Jon had nodded and closed his eyes to take a nap.

They hadn’t gotten in until 3 am and Jon had slept fitfully, not feeling any more focused or ready to play today than he did yesterday. The third hour in a row of watching _Clifford_ probably isn’t helping, either, and he’s incredibly grateful when Dustin appears in the living room, kissing his sons on the top of their heads and grabbing Jon roughly by the shoulder. “We’re going to the rink early today.”

Jon doesn’t argue, just waves goodbye to the boys and climbs into the Mercedes. His head is pounding from the combination of lack of sleep and Dustin’s kids, and he closes his eyes, resting his head back against the seat as Dustin pulls onto the highway.

“Advil’s in the glove compartment.”

Jon wants to protest, but instead he takes three and steals Dustin’s water bottle. He downs half the bottle before setting it back in the cup holder and he cringes when he feels Dustin’s eyes on him. “Sorry.”

Dustin shakes his head, turning his eyes back to the road. “Not that.” He sighs. “Coach Murray wants to see you before warm-ups.”

Jon closes his eyes again. The Advil isn’t taking effect fast enough. “Bernie’s starting tonight.”

“Yeah.”

Jon shrugs. “I figured.”

“Jon-” Dustin stops, unsure.

Jon sighs and rolls his head to look at Dustin. “Say whatever you wanna say. You didn’t have any problems last night.”

Dustin’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel and Jon feels bad for a moment. “I know something’s going on with you,” Dustin starts, speaking slowly. “And I don’t wanna know what it is, I just want you to fix it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jon nods, as if this is as easy as ‘fix it.’

“And, um, this is really none of my business, but-” Dustin swallows, loudly, and Jon opens his eyes in interest to see Dustin blushing all the way to his ears. Jon sits up straight, watching intently as Dustin struggles for words. “Prongs has invited us out after the game and we’re going, as a team,” he stops to emphasize the word, and Jon frowns.

“Um, I was going to- I have plans. After the game.”

Dustin turns all the way in his seat to glare at Jon, and then has to swerve quickly not to hit the car in front of them. “You don’t. This is a team event. It’s not optional.”

Jon sighs, digging his phone out of his pocket to send a quick, apologetic text to Anže. He had been looking forward to seeing him after the frustration of the last few days, but Dustin’s already pissed at him and he can’t think of a good enough excuse for why he’d be busy at midnight on a game night.

He drops his phone into his lap and feels Dustin’s eyes on him again. “What? I’ve cancelled my plans. Like a good boy.” He looks out at the highway and the line of traffic they’re in, cursing LA and its busy roads and the opportunity it gives Dustin to watch him and the road simultaneously. Jon scowls in frustration. “And keep your eyes on the road.”

Dustin ignores him, but his face is still flushed red and he clears his throat again. “Prongs said the guys wanna see Hollywood and Stollie chose a place. _Opera_ , or something. It’s a club. It’ll be dark. And crowded. If you want- I mean, we don’t have another game ‘til Saturday and you obviously need to relax and I don’t mind and-” Dustin stammers, his lisp coming out stronger than it has in months. “What I’m saying is, I’ll run interference. If you want.”

Dustin sort of trails off, his voice growing low and thick with embarrassment and it takes Jon a moment to decipher his meaning, but then he’s blushing as strongly as Dustin is. “You-” Jon stops, taking a deep breath and turning to look at the city as they drive by, drumming his fingers against the window. “You wanna help me get laid?”

“Yes,” Dustin says, loudly, too excited that Jon finally understands what he’s getting at, and then he stares down at his hands on the steering wheel, gripping hard. “If you need to. If it’ll help.”

“Um, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” Jon starts, tripping over his own words, “but-” _I’ve been laid more in the past three months than in my entire lifetime_. Jon can’t say that, so he settles on, “I’m good. Fine. I don’t need-” 

He sort of trails off and Dustin keeps staring at the car in front of them, his brow creased and the silence growing thick around them. They’ve never talked about this, not since that first time when Dustin let Jon know that he knows Jon’s sexual preferences, and Jon doesn’t know what to say. He’s managed to forget that Dustin even knows, and this reminder, now, is terrifying in light of everything Jon can’t say about Anže. The silence settles over them, stifling and oppressive as Jon has to force his mind to stop racing away from him. He glances over at Dustin to see that Dustin is just as embarrassed as he is about all this, and Jon feels himself settle back into his seat.

He clears his throat and forces a small smile. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

Dustin glances at him quickly, the relief clear on his face at Jon’s peace offering. “Yeah, yeah, no problem. If you ever-”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows. “Thanks.”

The traffic is clearing up in front of them and Dustin has to turn his eyes to the road. Thankful for the distraction, Jon leans forward, fiddling with the radio station until they pull up in front of the Staples Center.

The game isn’t any better than the last one. Bernie’s pulled after allowing four goals in the second, and even though Jon only lets one past in the third, they lose 7-4 and it doesn’t sting any less than if he had let in all seven. This time, it’s not just Jon who’s frustrated, and they’re all buzzing with frustration and adrenalin by the time they get to the club.

Stollie waves Jon and Dustin up to a VIP seating alcove on the second floor. Most of the Flyers and about half of the Kings are already there, and Jon find himself squeezed into a small space next to the railing overlooking the dance floor, between Mike Richards and Brad Richardson.

The music is loud, the beat thumping through the floor and Jon finds his foot tapping unconsciously, his eyes scanning through the crowd of Hollywood A-list wanna-bes dressed in matchstick jeans, loose t-shirts, and baseball caps on the dance floor below. Jon subconsciously straightens the hat on his own head. He’d like to take it off, but one shower doesn't usually get rid of helmet-hair, so he settles for fiddling with the brim until he stabs Bad with his elbow.

“Sorry.”

Brad just shrugs and holds up a hand with a bottle in it. “Beer?”

“Sure,” Jon says at the same time as Mike Richards and Jon looks over to see Mike eyeing him carefully. Jon gives him a small smile and passes a beer over when Brad hands it to him.

Mike accepts it gratefully and tilts the top towards Jon’s. “Cheers.”

“Sure.” Jon clanks their bottles together.

“You remember Carts, yeah?” Mike motions to the guy squeezed onto the couch next to him, their thighs and shoulders pressed together in the small space.

“Yeah, of course. Hey.” Jon tilts his beer towards Jeff Carter’s and Jeff reaches across Mike to clink his bottle with Jon’s. Jon met them both at the Olympics last February, at the post-Gold Medal party, where most of Team USA had been more than drunk. Jon doesn’t remember much of what happened during the party, but the way Jeff is looking at him is making Jon squirm.

Jeff gives him a small smile, and doesn’t take his eyes away from Jon’s hands where they’re wrapped tightly around his beer. “Good game.”

Jon frowns. “Not really.”

Mike laughs and chokes on his beer and Jeff pats his back. He shakes his head, looking at Jon. “Every team has rough patches.”

Jon wants to argue that his rough patch is turning into a rough year, but he doesn’t want to explain that he’s been distracted because he’s having an affair with his hooker, so he just nods and takes a long sip. “How do you do it?”

Mike’s eyes go wide and Jeff visibly swallows half his beer, and Jon frowns, wondering what he said wrong. Mike’s hand touches Jeff’s knee and Jon can’t pull his eyes away as Mike asks in a thick voice, “Do what?”

“Win,” Jon clarifies, and he wants to ask what else he would have been asking about, but Mike’s already pulled his hand away and Jon drags his eyes from Jeff’s knee to their faces.

“Oh,” Mike sounds relieved, his voice evening out. “Um, I don’t know. We’ve got a good group of guys, I guess.”

Jon’s reminded of why the Philadelphia media hate the way Mike answers questions, and decides not to push it. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Um, I don’t know- And this is gonna sound weird, but the night we won the Gold.” Mike stops, swallows, then clarifies, “In Vancouver.”

“Yeah,” Jon nods, encouraging him. That feeling is back, that Jeff and Mike know something that’s just on the edge of Jon’s memory.

“You- Do you-?” Mike stops, his eyes trailing over Jon’s head and Jon feels a hand on his shoulder as Brad uses the leverage to stand.

“Dude, Stollie and I are going to dance.” He motions to the floor below them. “You got some moves?”

“In a bit. Maybe.” Even though he won’t. Jon really just wants to know what Mike was starting to say.

“Cool.” Brad pushes past them all and Jon spreads his legs a little in the new-found space.

He turns back to Mike. “What were you gonna ask?”

Mike’s fingers are tapping a rapid rhythm against his empty beer bottle and Jon can’t help but notice that Jeff’s eyes are trained on them. Jon looks up for their waitress, motioning for more beer for all of them, and then turns back to Mike, whose face is a little flushed. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Jon wants to throw something at Brad’s retreating back for interrupting them, but instead he takes a deep breath and decides to share something in hopes of jogging Mike’s trust again. “That night. At the party. I was pretty drunk.”

Mike laughs. “Most of you were. You had just lost the gold medal.”

It still hurts, even though Jon was the third string and hadn’t played a minute in the entire tournament. “I didn’t-” The waitress comes over and Jon accepts a new beer from her before leaning closer to Mike and Jeff. “I didn’t make a fool of myself, did I?”

“No,” Mike says, too quickly, and Jon frowns.

“Richie-”

Mike leans forward, one of his elbows on Jeff’s knee, so casually that Jon doesn’t think Mike realizes he’s doing it. “Just forget it.”

“If I said anything-” Jon trails off. Jeff’s giving him that look again and Jon’s getting the sinking suspicion that he knows exactly what he told them.

“You were drunk. We were drunk.” Mike’s voice is low and urgent. “It’s forgotten, yeah?”

Jon’s mind is racing. Mike is being so vague that Jon can’t even be sure that they’re talking about the same thing. His palms are sweating and shaking against his thighs as Matt Moulson’s warnings ring in his ears. But, Mike is offering him an out here, eyes wide and hands clenched between his thighs as he stares at Jon, practically begging him to take it. Jon’s throat is dry and he tries to swallow, but gives up and just nods.

Mike’s whole body seems to loosen, as does Jeff’s next to him. Mike squeezes Jon’s knee quickly and Jon can’t help but stare as Mike flushes, and Mike looks worried for a moment until Jon offers him a little smile. He doesn’t really understand what’s gone down here, and, just to be sure, “We’re good?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, chuckling as he straightens and sits back against the couch. “Another beer?”

Jon hadn’t realized that he’d finished his already, but the bottle’s empty and he hands it over. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great.” He feels tired, strung-out, a little bit tipsy as he also settles back into the seat, trying to force his shoulders to relax. He can’t help feeling like he’s barely dodged something, even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is.

The waitress comes around with a tray of shots and Jon takes one gratefully, swallowing it without a pause and washing it down with a long sip of his new beer. It does nothing to make him feel steadier, and he takes another sip, because Jeff is still staring at him and maybe, just maybe, he can drink enough to forget this night, too.

Desperately, he looks around for something, anything else to focus on, and his eyes are caught by a group of his teammates on the dance floor. He had forgotten that Brad said he was heading down, but there he is, trying to look cool next to Stollie, whose easy comfort fits in perfectly with the rest of the crowd. They’re dancing in a group with Doughty and Jack Johnson and Jon bites his lip not to laugh. They look ridiculous, arms hanging awkwardly at their sides and feet barely shuffling. JJ’s trying to match his steps to those of a much better dancer in the next group over, and Jon follows his gaze to take a look at the other guy.

And Jon stops breathing.

It’s Anže.

Those movements that JJ is trying to imitate are the same strong, measured thrusts that never fail to arouse Jon. JJ doesn’t even seem to notice that Anže is dancing hip-to-hip with another man, or perhaps he doesn’t care. Jon’s always known that Anže’s a good dancer, has since he made that fateful decision to hire Anže that first night. But, here, in a completely different context, Anže is spectacular.

Jon shifts. He’s half-hard in his jeans, sitting between his teammates and Mike Richards, and Jon lets out a choked little laugh at the absurdity of the situation. All his careful planning has been rendered pointless in an instant as his two lives collide in front of his eyes. He feels frantic, out of control, hot, and he blindly reaches towards the table where the waitress has left the tray of shots. He swallows two in quick succession, before turning back to the dance floor.

He’s having trouble breathing and he feels a body squeeze onto the couch next to him, a thigh pressed against his, and a hand gently kneed at the skin between his shoulder blades. 

“Quickie, hey, you okay?”

It’s Dustin’s voice, Dustin’s hand on his back, Dustin’s thigh next to his, pulsing heat between their jeans and Jon jerks away.

“Fine, fine,” he pants, his voice sounding thin and whiney to his own ears and he can feel Dustin’s worried gaze without looking up. He doesn’t fight when Dustin takes the bottle that’s hanging dangerously from his fingertips and places it on the table in front of them.

“Breath, Quickie, hey, breath. Slowly.” Jon’s world narrows down to Dustin’s breath on his neck and Anže’s body on the dance floor, just two points to anchor him, and Jon tries to focus on breathing with Dustin, slowly, in, out, in, out. “Good, good. You okay?”

_Not even close_. But Jon nods, slowly, his head swimming from the movement and the alcohol and the rush of fear that feels deep and thick and Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to breathe normally again.

“What-” Dustin swallows, his hand stilling on Jon’s back. “What happened?”

Jon wraps his hands around his head to try and keep the world from spinning deeper into darkness. He closes his eyes and swallows and finds that he has his voice, even if it’s low and unsteady. “Nothing, nothing.” He swallows again, and this time he sounds much saner. “It’s just hot. Crowded. I panicked. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t-. It’s-” Dustin swallows, and suddenly Jon realizes that Dustin’s hand is shaking on his back, and Jon feels a heady rush of guilt as he realizes how much he really must be scaring Dustin. 

He sits up straight, pushing Dustin away and reaching for his beer with what he hopes is a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. You know me and crowds.”

“Yeah,” Dustin says, slowly, as if he doesn’t really believe Jon. Jon settles back against the couch, focusing hard on keeping his muscles relaxed, relieved when Dustin does the same.

Jon listens in on the conversations around him, trying to act as normal as possible, thankful that he’s generally a little quiet and a little crazy, so his little episode wasn’t noticed by anyone but Dustin. His Captain. His best friend. Jon feels that flash of guilt again, and he can’t help a glance back at the dance floor.

“Hey, is that-?” Dustin leans around him, pointing directly along Jon’s line of sight and Jon swears.

“Stollie?” Jon asks, trying for nonchalant as he raises an eyebrow.

Dustin rolls his eyes. “Next to Stollie. The guy. From the rink.”

Jon consciously lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “How could we know? I’ve never seen him out of his gear. Have you?”

“Hmm.” Dustin’s shoulder is pressing into Jon’s chest in his attempts to get a better view of the dance floor, and Jon knows the exact moment that Anže feels their gazes on him. Anže looks up, his eyes widening and his hips stuttering as his whole body stiffens. Jon closes his eyes, hoping that the reaction is only obvious to him because he knows Anže’s body better than he knows his own.

Dustin doesn’t seem to notice. “The way he’s moving. His body. That’s a hockey player’s body. We should go figure out his name.”

It’s a simple, innocuous observation, but an irrational flash of jealousy crushes Jon’s chest and he forces down the desire to punch Dustin for paying so much attention to Anže’s body. 

Fuck. 

His cheeks burn, his muscles ache from being held still for so long, and his dick is half-hard again in his jeans. Jon’s been teetering on the edge for months and, when, under his gaze, Anže pulls his partner closer, Jon falls over edge.

“I need to go.” He stands up, knocking Dustin aside, and Dustin scowls at him, rubbing his jaw.

“Fuck, Jonny.”

“Sorry, sorry, I just- I need to get out of here.” He glances around him, but he’s boxed in by the table and his teammates. He feels flushed, frantic, his stomach tightening and distantly he wonders if this is what a panic attack really feels like.

Dustin stands next to him, placing his hand on Jon’s back, but Jon pushes him away. He squeezes by his teammates, trying to apologize as they swear at him and try to stand out of his way. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just needs to get out of here, quickly, without making any more of a scene. He doesn’t know how he gets outside, but suddenly the music is dimmed and the air is chilled against his skin and Jon stops, placing his hands on his thighs and hoping that he hasn’t stopped on the sidewalk.

Behind him, the door slams open and he assumes that it’s Dustin coming to check on him. But then there’s an arm on his neck, pushing him back against the uneven bricks of the building, and Jon’s staring into Anže’s burning eyes.

“Jebanje,” Anže spits, angrier than Jon’s ever seen him. “Zakaj-? Kaj-?”

Jon swallows against Anže’s arm at his throat. “Anže-”

Anže says something that Jon can’t make out, then swallows himself, struggling with his tongue until what tumbles out is English. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry for everything_.

“Magarac,” Anže swears, and Jon flinches. He knows what that ones mean. “I was respecting you. I wouldn’t make a scene. And you- You- Fuck.” Anže jerks his arm away, turning and walking a few steps away, his breathing coming out in deep, harsh pants in the cool December air, and Jon’s body goes limp, the press of his hips against the building the only thing keeping him upright.

Jon stays quiet, his own breath loud in his ears, until Anže comes back to him, his shoulders hunched and his eyes still blazing with anger, but his voice is a little gentler when he speaks. “I wasn’t going to out you.”

“Maybe I wanted you to,” Jon hisses, before he can stop himself.

Anže stills, his entire body rigid, and, for the first time, Jon realizes how much stronger than him Anže is. He’s taller, with more than a few pounds on Jon, and, despite the fact that they’ve spent hours naked and vulnerable together, Jon feels afraid for the first time since they met. That makes him angry, because Anže’s always called the shots in this thing between them and maybe, maybe it’s about time Jon takes back a little of his own control.

Jon straightens, flexing his shoulders and pushing Anže back against the building, pressing his hands to the wall above Anže’s head and boxing him in. “Maybe I want more from you. You know what seeing you dance like that does to me?” He presses his hips forward, his cock hot and heavy and undeniable as it presses into Anže’s hip. His whole body is shaking from alcohol and adrenaline and he holds his weight in his hands as he continues. “Seeing you, with another guy, it makes me fucking crazy.”

“A client,” Anže corrects, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, and Jon lunges forward to kiss him. Anže frowns into the kiss, pulling his head back and smacking it against the building. “You’re drunk.”

“A little,” Jon admits, because there’s no way he can deny it on his breath. But that’s not the point. “Don’t want you with other clients.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Anže’s sober, and he uses his superior coordination to push off the wall and slip out from Jon’s grasp.

“Anže-”

“No,” Anže says angrily. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

“Come with me.”

“I’m with a client.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” Anže sighs. “And you’re going to care when you wake up in the morning and realize what a fool you made of yourself in front of your teammates.”

Out here, it’s easy to forget that his entire team is upstairs and that they witnessed his breakdown first hand. He rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

Anže’s voice softens, but he doesn’t take a step closer. “You’re a hockey player, Jon. You told me yourself that you can’t be gay. And what I do is illegal. I can’t _ever_ be found out. Us-” He motions between them. “What we are- It can never happen.”

Jon’s chest tightens and he rubs his fist over his left breastplate, trying to ease the ache. “It can’t be. This- This can’t be all there is.”

“What more do you want?” Anže’s voice is gentle, but his eyes are flashing. “You want dinners? Movies? You want me to sit in the ‘friends and family’ box during games and cheer you on with a sign that says ‘go jonny, heart anže’?”

“Yes,” Jon whispers because, yes, he wants that. All of that. So much that his legs are shaking and his head is fuzzy and he pictures it, right down to the picket fence and the golden retriever and the mantel decorated at Christmas. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Jon,” Anže speaks softly, slowly, enunciating every word carefully over the sounds of the traffic rushing by. “I’m your hooker.”

But no matter how slowly Anže speaks, Jon still doesn’t get it. He’s still picturing _Pretty Woman_ and Anže is Julia Roberts and, in the end, this is all going to be tied up in a pretty pink bow and even Jon knows he’s being ridiculous when he practically begs, “Don’t be anymore. Be something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” Jon casts around for something, anything. Grocery store clerk. Bible salesman. It doesn’t matter, but all Jon can see is Anže, on the ice, the first time that Jon ever saw him, and what comes out is, “play hockey.” There’s silence, and Jon pushes on. “I’ve seen you play. You’re good. Very good. Your hands- I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s magical to watch you, Anže.”

“You’ve seen me play?” Anže asks, his voice chillingly calm. His body is still and stiff and he doesn’t move back when Jon takes two steps to stand directly in front of him.

“Yes. You’re magnificent.” Jon runs his hand up Anže’s right arm, squeezing his bicep and wanting desperately to lean forward and kiss him.

“When? How?”

“You used to sneak into the Staples Centre.” It’s not really a question, but Jon waits until Anže nods, slowly, before continuing. “I saw you. Before the season started. I followed you from the rink, that first night we met. I wanted to know who you were.”

“You hired me,” Anže breathes, defensively, his whole body shivering and Jon feels it at the points where they’re touching.

“Yeah,” Jon says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss at the back of Anže’s ear and that was the absolutely wrong thing to do. Anže pulls himself out of Jon’s grasp, wrapping his arms around his chest and, when Jon reaches for him, stepping off the curb.

“You knew?”

Jon has to strain to hear, but he does, and he shakes his head. “Not that you were an escort, no. I was going to take you out for a drink, ask for your name, figure out your story, maybe invite you to a team tryout.” Jon swallows. Even to his own ears, this sounds bad, but he doesn’t know what other lies to tell. “You assumed I was there to- to hire you,” he trips over the words and Anže cringes. “I couldn’t turn you down.” He swallows. “I haven’t ever been able to turn you down. I should have, so many times, but-”

Anže’s moved from anger to something that looks as close to terrified as Jon has ever seen, and he stops, sucking in a breath and holding it until Anže works through his words and steps back on the curb again, his eyes blazing even as his posture screams fear.

“I trusted you,” Anže hisses, a low, desperate whine in the back of his throat. “I- I let you in. I told you my _name_.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“No, no,” Anže swallows. “I was an idiot. Fuck, I was, an idiót.” Anže drops into what Jon guesses is Slovenian as he begins to pace, his entire body hunched over and he seems somewhere between furious and deeply afraid when he finally comes to a stop again in front of Jon, returning to English. He eyes Jon warily. “You made me do the one thing I could never do. You- how did I not see this coming? I- I can’t trust you.”

Jon feels his own anger flare up and he takes a step forward, forcibly grabbing Anže’s forearm when he makes to step back off the curb again. A taxi squeals to a stop and the driver rolls down the window to throw expletives at them until Jon gives him the finger and shouts a few words of his own, feeling his anger build until he’s shaking as he turns back to Anže. “I won’t do anything to hurt you. I can’t believe you think so little of me.”

Anže shrugs. “I don’t know you. Not really. You’ve lied to me from the moment we met.”

Jon can’t argue with that, and yet, “You know me better than anyone.” Jon insists. He knows it’s true, because if Anže doesn’t know him, then no one does and Jon isn’t willing to accept that he’s _that_ alone. “We’ve spent months together.”

“Months doing what?” Anže asks, wrenching his arm away again and moving back towards the building, away from oncoming traffic. “Fucking? You think you know me because you've paid to fuck my body?”

Jon’s head snaps back as if Anže physically slapped him. “It’s been more than that.”

“Has it?” Anže’s mouth curls up a bit on the left, a bit smirk, a bit scowl, and Jon’s heart starts beating faster. “Did you think you were special because I made you come?”

“Not just-”

Anže talks over him. “I’m an escort, Jon. It’s what I do. You pay me to make you feel special for an hour a couple times a week. It’s my job.”

“A job.” Jon says, slowly, testing the words in his mouth and they taste sour, dirty, and fall apart on his tongue.

“Yeah.” Anže crosses his arms again. “A job. That’s all.”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “You trusted me.”

Anže shrugs. “I misjudged. I’m sorry.”

As Jon looks at Anže, trying to read him, the hard set of his mouth, his crossed arms, the strange light in his eyes, he suddenly realizes how little he actually knows Anže. The picture in his head, the one with the house and the golden retriever and the picket fence, it gets blurry and starts to shift away like sand and Jon doesn’t even know if he wants to stop it. 

The way he’s been, these last few months, this hasn’t been him. He’s been distracted, confused, out of control and he’s been miserable for it. He’s let what he’s willing to admit is fantastic sex get in between himself and his teammates, and he’s let them down game after game. He’s let Dustin down. Coach Murray. He’s ashamed of himself, his anger turning inwards, and if he feels a pang of something deep and strong when he looks back at Anže, he pushes it away.

“Yeah. You’re right. This- what we have- it’s toxic.” Jon takes a deep breath. “You’ve always known it would end like this. This is what you’ve been trying to tell me for months, right?”

“Yeah,” Anže nods, his voice barely there and Jon ignores the way it pulls at him.

Jon nods. “I wasn’t listening before. I’m sorry for that.” And he is sorry, for putting them both through this for months when this ending was inevitable from the very moment Jon laid eyes on him. Jon swallows past his closed throat and forces out, “You don’t have to worry anymore. I won’t be calling again.”

Anže stares at him, eyes wide and arms folded across his chest as if they’re all that’s holding himself in. Jon knows that Anže’s trying to read Jon the way Jon was trying to read him a few moments ago and Jon holds his gaze, trying to convey that he’s speaking the truth, that Anže can trust him in this one last thing. 

Finally, after a few long, agonizing minutes, Anže nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick, and then he turns, hailing a cab and getting in without a single look back at Jon.

Jon watches. Watches long after he thinks he sees Anže ‘s cab turn around a building. This is it. It’s over. A stab of pain clenches at Jon’s chest and he doubles over, fists clenching at his thighs and forcibly trying to make his chest breath in and out. In his mind, he knows that what they had was unsustainable. They had been building to this outcome for months, since Matt Moulson had sat him down and told him that he would have to make a choice between being gay and playing hockey. 

Jon was always going to choose hockey, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Because, god, it’s over.

Jon’s lost the only man he’s ever loved.

He feels a hand on his back, warm and steady, and Jon doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. “How long have you been here?”

“A while,” Dustin whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers back. His throat feels raw and he stands, letting Dustin pull him into a loose-armed hug. “I’m sorry,” Jon whispers again. “I fucked up.” He’s whispering into Dustin’s shirt, but when Dustin leans down to hear him, Jon lifts his head. “I fell in love.” It seems important, somehow, that Dustin understands this. “With my hooker.”

Dustin’s hand doesn't falter on his back, Jon notes, so he must have heard enough of the argument to have gathered that bit of information already. It’s the last coherent thought before Jon feels the last of the adrenalin seep out of his skin and the alcohol rush back in. 

Translations:

Jebanje = fuck (Bosnian)  
Zakaj = why (Slovenian)  
Kaj = what (Slovenian)  
Magarac = jack ass (Bosnian)


End file.
